Second chance
by postgate
Summary: Returning to the X-Mansion to teach after such a promising start might seem like a great idea, but with a new mutation putting a spanner in the works, things could get a little more complex! Amanda Jacobsson is back! PLEASE R and R. Reprise added 7Aug10
1. Concerning before, and after, math

Okay, a lot of people asked me about her mutation, I'm not sure about writing this one, but I figured what the hell, one chapter isn't going to hurt, right? Let me know what you think - obviously this is a lttle darker than the last one because it's sort of dealing with the aftermath of what ended up being a pretty awful stuation.

If you haven't read 'first interview' this probably won't make much sense to you. Also it contains spoilers for that one, so if you think you might want to read it READ IT FIRST! Just an idea. Do what you like.

I accept no kind of responsibility for any of this. I think it should be obvious that I don't own the x-men and have no rights etc yada yada

postgate

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After Math

You can spend a really long time lying to yourself before you have to admit the truth. I mean that. You can. Apparently I can't. I can spend a very small amount of time lying to myself before, apparently the truth is going to turn around and slap me in the face. My name is Amanda Jacobson, and I'm a mutant.

This was brought most forcefully home to me when I walked into a maths lesson to find a class full of teenagers chanting; "Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer," the minute I walked through the door.

It wasn't like I was arguing with them. In fact, the very point is, apparently, that I entirely agree with them. It seems that this is what the problem is. See, according to the tests, this is not what they think of me, it's what I think of me, and the chanting was a sort of subconscious admittance that I'm feeling a little bit guilty about the fact that I killed my mum.

So, you see, I'm not kidding when I say that while _you_ might be able to lie to yourself for a long time, I might not be so fortunate.

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Standing up in front of a class is always something of a heady experience. In my old school the rush came at least three times a day; first thing in the morning when they walked in, after play and after lunch. You'd get other rushes, when you changed tack in the middle of a session, or tried something you weren't sure of; but always, always, you get one when you first walk in. And the biggest one was the first class of the day. And bigger than that was the one on a Monday morning, when you haven't seen them for two days. And bigger than that is the one after the holidays. And it's always strongest when they're a new class and you don't know them that well. You never know which way they are going to jump.

"Starter; angle estimates, calcs and missing points race," I mutter. You see athletes doing this on the starting line; this is how I'm going to run the race, throw the javelin, jump, whatever. I've listened to teachers do it as they walk down the corridors before class: This is how I'm going to run the session. Start to finish. There is a Plan. Remember it. Don't get tied in. "Trig, Soc cah toa. Don't forget the protractors and calculators." I reach the door. "Okay let's do this," I say and open the door.

"Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer," I shut the door again, heart beating a mile a minute. _How did they know?_ Even out in the corridor I can hear them.

"Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer..."

"Oh shit," I breathe. I've never faced anything like this before. I mean, you always kind of expect a rebellion, but _this_. I open the door again, just a little. "Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer," twenty-five kids, chanting in unison. I shouldn't go in there, God knows what might happen. Equally I can't leave them in there on their own. That would be irresponsible. I lean against the wall, trying to block out the sound. Trying desperately to think.

"Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer, Mur-der-rer."

"Amanda, keep calm and listen to my voice," I look around wildly. It's the Professor's voice but it's coming from thin air. I'd forgotten he could do that.

"Go to the end of the corridor, enter the lift," he says.

"The kids," I say, as if he might have forgotten them.

"Dr McCoy is on his way to them now. You need to leave right away." You're not fucking kidding, I think as I head down the corridor, following his instructions.

I enter the lift. It was right there, waiting for me. It starts to move before I can touch a button. It's going down.

"For your own safety I am putting you in a holding room," the Professor tells me. "Jean and I will join you shortly. Until we arrive you will need to lock the door. We were afraid this might happen."

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	2. Concerning a period some time earlier

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"It's intriguing, really, when you look closely at the results," Hank McCoy said, following his own advice and scrutinising them closely. He and Jean were seated in front of the Professors desk, and Hank was forcefully reminded of his school days when he and Jean had sat in these very same seats discussing a science project with their mentor. In some respects very little had changed, just the subject of the science project.

"Fascinating, I agree," replied the Professor, regarding his own copy of the test results with a slightly furrowed brow. "It certainly bears out our preliminary guesses."

"But it does bring up the issue of safety," Jean Gray pointed out in a quiet voice. "Martin and Ollie have actually _gained_ control of their powers, but then they both knew they had powers in the first place. What's going to happen to Amanda is really anyone's guess."

"You think she may not be able to control it?" asked Hank McCoy, knowing the answer but asking anyway. Questioning is a useful tool to help people to articulate their ideas more completely. Just as the Professor had taught them.

"She never has before; she genuinely didn't know she was a mutant. She didn't even use her powers in any kind of conscious way. She probably still doesn't know what they do," Jean told him. "So if the results Martin and Oliver are giving out are anything like hers… well it could be catastrophic. She could totally lose control."

"I think we should cross that bridge when we come to it," said the Professor. "It's quite possible that she'll decide not to come with us. She has no reason for wanting to come back, after all. She didn't have the most relaxing first interview."

"But you still think we should give her a second chance, Professor?" Jean asked. "If our preliminary guesses are correct it could be extremely dangerous for her to come back here."

"That's true, but I'm certainly of the opinion that we should try. If nothing else, we may be able to help her. And if we don't, it's perfectly possible that someone else will," he said. The thought hung in the air between them. The Brotherhood, British Military Intelligence and Interpol all had files on Ms Jacobson, and that was before they knew she had a mutation. While any of these organisations might be able to help her control her new found powers, it seemed perfectly clear that there would be a price for their help.

"What will you say to the rest of the staff?" Hank asked, breaking the moment.

"I shall tell them the truth," the Professor said, smiling. "And I shall expect them to control their responses appropriately. You might want to warn them…" he added turning away from them and gazing out of the window of his office while his two former pupils exchanged a meaningful glance. They would never know how much it amused him that they weren't ever sure when he was joking. He was going to enjoy discussing this with the rest of the staff.

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	3. Containing second thoughts, too late

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If I'd known at the time that this was going to end with me locked in the basement for nearly a week I might have decided not to come. Learn from my mistake. Have those second thoughts. Listen to them. If I'd stayed in Wales perhaps none of this would have happened.

In fact I probably wouldn't even _be_ a mutant if I was still living in Wales – although saying that, even if it had turned out the same and I'd ended up locked in Danny's basement it would be better than this. Danny's basement is full of booze. At least I'd be able to get pissed. Here the only thing to do is to fabricate planning for Ms Munroe, and quite honestly I'd rather stab myself in the eyes. At least _she_ isn't allowed to visit me down here any more. Last time she was here she thumped me and I'm not taking one ounce of blame for it no matter what they say. There is no way I _wanted_ her to thump me. I'm not _that _insane. Still if it stops her from being able to visit, it was worth getting thumped. Thank heaven for small mercies I say.

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It's early morning grey. The grass is that amazing green that you get on grey days, and to say that the grass is damp with dew would be to understate the case by a long way. My jeans are too long and they are getting soaked by the walk; as are my trainers, and, ultimately my feet. The dry stone walls cut across the grass surface like jagged rocks sticking up from a beach. They look as though, if you dug down, you would never find their base because they go right through the landscape like the coal seams.

Since it's early morning, I'm not fully awake and my brain isn't fully functioning yet. This is a good thing as it means I'm not yet capable of first thoughts, let alone second ones. I said bye to Dan's kids last night. Danny got up with the light this morning, then he made me do the same, otherwise I would probably still be in my bed. He's given me a backpack full of stuff. He has this habit of doing that. I know when I open it, it'll be full of food. It's how he tells you he cares about you. Other people say it with flowers; in my family we say it with food.

I have purposefully been focussing on my feet, walking with my head down, enjoying the cool, damp air that surrounds me because I know that if I look up…

I reach the stile and know I'm almost there. Actually that's an understatement too, to say I reached the stile conjures an image of a wooden step or two to get you over a wooden gate or fence. Round here stiles aren't like that. Around here, stiles are made of slabs of stone sticking straight out of the wall, forming a little stairway up and down. I climb it with my head down, knowing I can't avoid it much longer. At the top I can't help myself. I look up. On the other side of the stile, seeming to fill the entire space between the wall and the river, is the immensity of the blackbird.

Which, of course, is what I have been carefully not thinking about.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the packet of fags I had half-inched from my step-sister-in-laws purse. She'd tell you it wasn't stealing because she's happy to give them to me; I maintain that it is stealing if you are going down someone's bag without their knowledge. She says it's not without their knowledge if she knows I'll do it about half the time I'm in her presence. I point out that it is without asking. She says but it is with permission. Well, I guess you get the idea. I prefer to think of myself of amoral. She likes to pretend I'm a nice person. Inside the packet there is a note. It says: "Good job I didn't quit completely when I had the girls! Get us some duty free on your way back for Christmas." I smile involuntarily as I pull out the cigarette. Despite the fact I'm not fully awake yet there are butterflies in my stomach and a lump in my throat.

The advantage of never having gotten addicted to nicotine is that I still get the rush. I feel it all the way to my fingers. One cigarette is all I need right now. I won't need another one for weeks. I'll probably give the packet to LeBeau when I get back – otherwise the cigarettes'll go stale before I smoke the bloody things. I'm figuring LeBeau's gonna be my new cigarette buddy.

"You can't smoke that thing here," says Ms Munroe. Always with the rules. "You'd better put it out, we're ready to go."

"I'll be three minutes," I say, pulling on the fag, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs and letting it out slowly, determined to savour every carcinogenic millimetre.

"We're ready to go," she repeats, irritable.

"Then go," I say, challenging. There's something about her that brings out this side of me. She gives me a hard look and stalks up the steps into the plane. I wonder for a moment if she will, in fact, go without me. It's a thought that I find faintly amusing. I even sort of hope she will.

She reappears moments later. "The Professor says you should come inside. He says he'd rather you finished the cigarette inside than accidentally dropping the butt on the way in and causing a fire."

"Has he seen the weather?" I ask, managing to shoot my voice full of incredulity.

"Just get in so we can go," she replies. I smile and follow her on board.

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	4. Introducing Pollyanna to the proceedings

The room I have entered is small and relatively bare. It beats the one Mystique trapped me in on a number of counts. First because there is a sink in the corner. Also there is a utilitarian bed, table and chair - a distinct improvement on the furnishedly challenged room in the warehouse. In fact this room is positively homey compared to that one. I think I'm going to be very happy here. Pollyanna. I lock the door after I enter by inserting a bolt into the sliding mechanism. All the doors down here are sliding doors, very futuristic. I sit down on the table and put my head in my hands, wondering where this is going to go from here. Trying to avoid the pit of despair. This just goes to show how long a sane person can sustain a Pollyanna outlook for. I can manage about thirty seconds on an average day. On a day like this one I'm down to around five. Maybe three.

Why were the kids shouting like that? The Professor had said he thought something like this might happen. If that was true why the hell hadn't he shared that information with me? I hadn't had the first idea that anything like that might happen. Ever. I mean really, think back to your own school days. Did you ever greet a teacher in morning by shouting Murderer repeatedly? I'll bet you didn't. I'll bet, if you chanted anything at all at your teacher first thing in the morning it went something along the lines of "Good Morn-ning Mississ So-and-So, Good Morning Ev-ry-Body." While this is annoying, it's not exactly a crisis situation. How do they even _know_ I'm a murderer? Surely none of the staff would tell them, I mean I know Ms Munroe isn't about to join my fan club but she doesn't strike me as that kind of unprofessional bitch...

Oh.

It wasn't just staff that were present was it. Pryde?

There is a polite knock on the door that brings me gently back to the present. I lift my head in time to see the bolt sliding out of the door as if by magic. My forehead furrows for a moment before I realise what has just happened. It _was_ magic, sort of. The Professor and Jean walk in. They are wearing identical concerned expressions.

"Hey," I say. I know I sound embarrassed and guilty. That's because I feel embarrassed and guilty. I'm supposed to be covering for Kurt Wagner, since I accidentally broke him last week. Instead Dr McCoy is covering from me, since I apparently am even more broken than Kurt is. Not the best start in the world, eh?

"Ah, Ms Jacobson, good morning," says the Professor, smiling benignly. "I'm afraid I don't have long before my next class, so I hope you will let me explain briefly the situation as I see it?" There is the briefest of pauses in which I am able to insert the smallest of gestures to continue. He does so, at speed. "We believe that your mother's machine may have had an unexpected effect on your mutation. At present we can only conjecture as to what the precise nature of that effect may have been. In order to ascertain this more fully we would like you, with your consent of course, to undertake a series of tests and a thorough medical examination. These will allow us to verify the exact nature of you powers and thereby enable us to assist you in controlling them, so that unforeseen circumstances such as this mornings should not occur again."

"Oh," I say, then seeing that they expect a little more than this I add. "Okay." They are still looking at me like a specimen. "Sorry?" I try. Sorry often works because it can mean so many different things: sorry to cause so much trouble; sorry for being here; sorry you're upset; sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about; sorry, I wasn't listening; sorry I don't care that much; sorry, did I say that? Oops. You get the picture.

"Well then, good, if you have no further questions. Jean," he says.

"Yes," she says and she turns and walks away. He rolls after her.

"Hang on," I call after them. The Professor turns politely.

"What the fuck?" I ask, helplessly. I mean, I would have asked a more specific and polite series of questions but I'm having trouble forming thoughts, let alone words right now.

He turns back to me. He smiles with that patient smile you use on the drunken lunatics you meet on buses. You know the ones, the ones who sit next to you and start talking in their own special drunken language. "Jean is going to fetch some equipment," he tells me, slower this time. "You will need to stay here. We'll let you know what is going on just as soon as we have the test results. Don't worry, Amanda, everything is going to be fine." He rolls out.

"Oh," I say to no one in particular. "Okay then." This is all very odd. I'm not a drunken lunatic am I? I get up from the table and try the door. It's locked.

"Oh shit," I say, softly. I hope life gets less confusing at some point. Maybe I should become a drunken bus lunatic. It might be quite restful.

Still, it's nice to know everything's going to be fine, isn't it Pollyanna? I think we are going to be very happy here.


	5. Contemplations of a hard man routine

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It took Jean three trips to bring all her equipment to Ms Jacobson's holding room and each time she returned the woman was looking more and more forlorn. She looked up and smiled every time Jean came in, but it wasn't convincing; in despair Amanda looked increasingly like a lost child. Jean felt sorry for her; for what she had been through, and for what was likely to happen next. Jean herself could remember all too clearly the time when her own mutation had manifested, making her feel like she was going insane. Facing the seemingly impossible task of learning to control the intangible had been terrifying. Learning to control the movement of objects at will, instead of at random. Trying to stop something as intangible as hearing people thinking. Learning to control your emotions well enough that people with whom you were angry did not find themselves stabbed by knives or buried under fallen bookshelves. The seeming impossibility of stopping it all from taking over her life. People thought her meek, mild and shy, but really and truly what choice did she have? Strong emotions from her could create the most amazing havoc.

Sometimes she missed those irresponsible days of her childhood. Those times when she could show her emotions without the fear of hurting people. A time when she could scream and shout and yell without a hail of flying objects whirling about her. It made her sad, too, that there were so few people who had known her before she had learned control. Few who had seen the strength of the emotion that she kept, carefully contained, beneath her calm exterior. Other times she wondered if those times had ever really existed at all.

She also remembered the immense relief she had experienced when, finally, she had had a cup of coffee in a public place without hearing the thoughts of every single person around her. She'd been with Scott. She smiled at the memory. He'd had her somewhat distracted.

"Hey, Jean, wait up," a voice growled from behind her. "Let me carry that."

She put her head on one side with a small smile and handed her burden over to the stocky Canadian. "Thank you, Logan," she said pleasantly.

"What's this I hear about Mandy dumping her classes on Hank?"

"What's the problem, Logan, did it stop you dumping your own classes on him?" Jean asked on a second smile.

Logan rolled his eyes. "According to One-eye I was supposed to be teaching that math class anyway. He all but chewed my ass off about his precious timetabling. I mean, does it really matter who teaches a damn math class? I'm telling you, girl, you need to get that stick out of his butt before it grows some more and starts poking out his mouth." Jean permitted herself a small laugh at the image.

"He asked me to ask you when you were going to be back on timetable because he's not sure how many staff he can cover for without giving the kids a study day," Logan went on, smug that he'd got a laugh. He loved flirting with this woman. Partly it was because she was a smoking hot babe but it wasn't like he didn't meet plenty of those, they were always buzzing around. No, in fact it was mostly because it drove One-eye up the wall. After all, everyone needs a hobby.

"Oh God, I don't know, Logan," Jean told him. "Can you tell him I don't know how long this is going to take?"

"What do I look like? A fucking postman? Tell him yourself," Logan growled. "I just wanted your permission to do exactly what I please in your Bio class this afternoon, since _apparently_ I'm covering it."

"If I say we were looking at mammalian skeletal structures is it going to make the slightest difference?" she asked allowing her voice to slip into playfulness as they entered Ms Jacobson's room. She loved his hard man routine. It was as casually offensive as she sometimes longed to be.

"Nope," he replied dumping the equipment on the side. He glanced over at the woman sitting on the table staring in front of her with vacant eyes. This time she hadn't even bothered to look up and smile. "Chin up, kid," he told her. "It could be worse, you could be teaching."

The woman rolled her eyes at him and pulled a face. "Hah!" was all she said but Logan felt himself tensing, ready for action. What did she mean, Hah? He'd taken the trouble to come down and see her. He'd gone out of his way and that was the way the little murderer was going to repay him? Well we'll just see about that, he thought. Jean placed a hand on his chest and looked him in the eye. She looked concerned but determined.

"Logan was just helping me carry some equipment," she said quietly, more to him than the woman. "He's going now." He felt himself pushed by a force that felt curiously like the one you get when you try and put the same ends of a magnet together. He raised a sarcastic eyebrow at Jean, turned on his heel and stalked out. She breathed out in a small controlled sigh as he left. Of course, one had to be careful to remember: the hard man routine was not, in fact, simply a routine.

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Not sure about this one. Suggested improvements please, but be gentle!

postgate


	6. Contemplations on toothache

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Undergoing medical tests is always a depressing experience and this time is no different. The difference this time, however, is that I didn't have to wait six months for each individual test. And I probably won't have to wait a further eight months for each, individual result either. And then I almost certainly won't have to sit in a waiting room for hours until someone finally comes over to admit they've lost my notes. All of this could be seen as 'the good thing'.

The bad thing is that the tests are being done by Dr Jean Gray, psychic extraordinaire. And she seems to be trying to do fifteen tests _all at once_! Where normally, you'd get fifteen tests over the course of about six or seven years, I'm getting them all in one sodding day! It really is more than a body ought to be asked to put up with. I mean, I don't really like doctors, at the best of times. They rate, in my opinion, only slightly above driving instructors in their over all responsibility for pain and suffering in the world. On top of this, as you have probably guessed, I don't respond real well to tests.

Anyway, as a consequence of all of this, I think you'll understand that this whole situation has been designed to bring out my worst side. Don't get me wrong, I'm _trying_. I really am. Because, rationally, I know that I do like Dr Gray. And I do not want to stab her in the eyes with one of her own cotton swabs. I don't. Really. Honest. But if she hits me with that damn hammer again, so help me God….

"Okay this is just going to show the brain activity function," she tells me, using doctor voice and tapping buttons. Does she think that's going to make me happy for crying out loud? She can read my mind_ and_ she is tracking my brain function. Sheesh.

"Marvellous," I tell her, caustically. My voice could be used to unblock drains.

Damn that beeping machine is annoying. I mean for crying out loud, yes, I have a pulse. What did you bloody think? That it was going to suddenly stop or something?

"It's okay to be upset, you know," she tells me, sympathetically.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Can you feel that?" she asks, stroking my arm with a cotton swap.

"You tell me," I say.

She smiles, but it comes out more like a grimace. "Actually I'd rather you told me," she says. If you listen closely you can hear the gritted teeth. Maybe I'm not being the greatest patient here, but what can I tell you? Not two hours ago I was going to teach a maths lesson. Now I'm in a basement being prodded with things. I'm not feeling very bloody patient. Still, the gritted teeth do make me feel guilty.

"Yes I can feel that," I reply, promising myself that I'll try harder. Remember Pollyanna. Probably her doctors never grimaced, well, except when she gave them toothache by being to saccharine for words... I shall now emulate Pollyanna.

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Jean gritted her teeth and reminded herself for what felt like the thousandth time that she felt sorry for Ms Jacobson. She wasn't angry with her. Even if Amanda had abandoned the group while they were fighting for their lives back at the warehouse. Even though she had left the school in the lurch. Even though she had almost killed Kurt Wagner. Jean felt sorry for her. The poor girl had been through a lot. It wasn't her fault all this had happened. And Jean was absolutely in control of her emotions, just as always. A rustle from the paper sitting in the printer belied this assertion but Jean chose to ignore it.

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	7. During which problems increase in size

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"Look could you just bloody well make UP YOUR **SODDING** MIND WHAT THE** _FUCK_ IT IS YOU ARE _ACTUALLY DOING_**!" That started off as a reasonable request, and ended up as a bellow. Dr Gray looks understandably taken aback but in my defense she had just stuck some kind of a weird machine in my face and zapped me with something that felt like a bucket of cold water. I defy you to be reasonable under those circumstances.

Add on to that the fact that I'm wearing an electronic skull cap that looks even worse than the Frankenstein's throne my mum built. (Apparently it's monitoring my brain function - as if that's supposed to make me feel better!) Then add to that the fact that this contraption is giving me hat hair. And _then_ add on the fact that Jean Gray hasn't spoken two words to me in the last fifteen minutes. Instead she has been tapping computer keys with her fingers and tapping various parts of my body with a hammer. And frowning all the while. It's been getting me down. Still, while it might explain a certain amount of snippiness on my part, I suppose it doesn't really excuse the bellow. I take a very deep breath and try and get myself back in control.

"Sorry," I mumble, "it's just I'm not in a very good place at the moment." Then I bite my lips together so that I don't say anything more. I'm not really under control at all.

"That's alright," she tells me, mechanically, "it's perfectly understandable. You are entitled to do some things you wouldn't normally do. It's a perfectly normal human response."

"Oh good. I'm glad it's _normal_ to act like that," I say, maybe a little too loudly and certainly so sarcastically that even the most obtuse of intellects wouldn't be able to ignore it. "I'm glad that's _normal._ If doing things that are a little irrational is perfectly _normal_ I might as well take advantage, mightn't I?"

Even as I say it I can see Jean shutting down. Her personality seems to be pulling back and disappearing. I know I should stop and rein myself in, but the thing is I'm in so deep already I can't. I'm out of control in a way I haven't been since - no, even when I thumped LeBeau in the face I was more in control than I am right now.

"How about if I grab a scalpel? Is that _normal?_ What does that look like on a fucking brain function test?" In my defense at this point I will say only this; I don't actually grab the scalpel and start waving that around... I know. It's not much. But it's all there is.

I find myself slammed onto my back on the bed. "Easy, I'm a telekinetic telepath, remember?" Her voice is icy calm, a stark contrast to my own. "So, to put it simply, so that even the most obtuse of intellects can comprehend: You go for the scalpel and you'll find yourself in restraints until you calm down." She gives me a brittle bright smile as the scalpel swims through the air towards me. "That's if you can even reach it in time," she adds and her voice is now as brittle bright as her smile, as brittle as a frozen mud puddle. Beneath the brittle bright layer something terrible is lurking. I'm immobilized on the bed, watching the scalpel dart towards me like a minnow. A cold fear grips my insides. Next it dances back towards her hand as if undecided on its plan. Then as I stare in forced, frozen horror it plunges back towards my throat. Something strangely like relief floods through me at this turn of events.

The knife stops, as if it has hit a wall, eight inches from my face. She is breathing hard and her face is slightly flushed. The scalpel clatters down to the floor. The relief is gone now, and so is the frozen horror. I can move. I sit up carefully and slowly. Oh shit, what the hell is going on? What have I done?

And Jean stands and stalks purposefully from the room. I watch her go. As she passes through the doorway I see her hand touch her forehead and I know she is trying not to cry. She's one up on me. I'm trying not to throw up. It's the adrenaline. It was exciting, you see, it's not like I was scared. The door closes and I hear it lock itself. I swallow hard and laugh a small hysterical laugh. Then I try a few deep breaths. When that doesn't help I put my head down between my knees and swallow some more. Okay, maybe I was a little scared.

I don't know what's going on.

I don't know what just happened.

I **_do _**know I should have stayed in fucking Wales.

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Jean leaned against the wall outside the room and felt tears dropping from her eyes. What the hell had happened in there? What was going on? It was so long since she had last lost control like that... She couldn't remember it properly. It felt like it had happened to someone else. What if she hadn't gotten control in time? How had it even gotten to that point? When... no. Stop it.

She shut her eyes on the tears and pulled herself back in. It was surprisingly easy. Then she summoned the Professor.

"Charles," she said. "I think this problem may be bigger than we thought."

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	8. Concerning plans for further experiments

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"So theoretically speaking, looking at these results, what was previously a sub-conscious projection of the consciously controlled mind has…" Hank trailed off looking questioningly at his lab partner.

"Slipped," Jean said calmly. No-one was mentioning her own slip. The people in this room wouldn't bring it up until she did, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful. She hadn't told Henry what had happened, she'd just fetched him out of the bio lab he'd been running. He hadn't asked questions, he'd just sent the kids off with some homework and followed her. She had shown both him and the Professor the tape of the incident. They'd watched in silence. She wondered if she would ever tell Scott what had happened and knew a sense of relief that it was up to her whether he would ever know. No-one would tell him unless she did. In fact, all that had been said about it so far had been in relation to what it showed about Amanda's mutation. As the Professor had pointed out, it was very useful in complimenting the information from the tests she'd completed. "It's turned into a sub-conscious projection of the subconscious mind. If you ask her whether she is feeling guilty, she will say no. And she will be telling the truth. She isn't allowing herself to experience grief and remorse, but quite clearly if you scratch the surface…"

"We will find a frightening well of subconscious self-loathing," finished the Professor. He smiled reassuringly at Jean. He wouldn't say this yet, because Jean was still in shock and therefore wasn't ready to deal with the emotions the incident had thrown up in her, but at some point he would tell her how proud he was of her. How amazing it was that, despite everything, she had been in the presence of Amanda Jacobson for two hours before anything had seemed amiss. Jean had been carrying out tests for a total of four hours before she had lost control of her mutation. Remembering the helpless girl she had been when she had first arrived at the Institute, and the devastating effect that her fear and anger had wreaked within those walls, Xavier was astonished by how she had grown in the intervening years. This new evidence of her control filled him with pleasure and pride for what she had become. He, above all others, knew what it had cost her.

The Professor noted, privately, that Hank looked troubled by his seemingly sanguine comment. As the Professor had already noted, Hank had been somewhat under the influence of the girl ever since they had first met. Not that she had conscious control of her power at that time, of course, but still. "It's quite interesting," the Professor said, bringing their discussion back on track. It was important to keep the two young scientists engaged in exploration, otherwise there was a risk they would become melancholy. "The power that Lorelei possessed was almost identical to that of her daughter, but it remained always within her conscious mind, and in her conscious control."

"And it only affected men," Jean pointed out.

"Until her power was augmented by the machine," Hank added. "At which point it could be used to control both men and women."

"Within a certain radius," the Professor continued after a pause.

"Indeed," Hank said, giving himself some thinking room. "So potentially, with testing, we could discover the radius of Ms Jacobson's influence."

"Logan was fairly instantly influenced," Jean said, licking her lips nervously. She felt bad saying it, as if she was attributing a weakness to the man, but he certainly didn't hide his emotions, after all. That was what she liked about him. Still, there was no getting around the fact that it was more than a little disloyal, planning to use the man as part of an experiment.

"We should also explore the degree of influence that she has," Xavier pointed out. "It has been quite apparent to me that there are certain members of staff that Ms Jacobson has always had a more… shall we say _significant_ influence over…" he let that hang in the air for a moment before he continued. "It would be interesting to discover whether her erstwhile detractors are equally influenced by her in her current state." Jean and Hank exchanged a quiet, uncomprehending look.

"I think we should send either Ororo or Warren in to see her," the Professor explained, patiently.

Jean and Hank exchanged another look. Unlike the last one, this one was rich with unspoken comment. This one the Professor chose to ignore.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo


	9. Which concerns having fun responsibly

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

"Remy don' tink diss is a good idea," he said, trailing Storm up a staircase.

"Remy should keep his nose out and worry about making sure he remembers whose class he is covering tomorrow," Storm replied sharply. Remy rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in disgust.

"When you gonna let up on Remy 'bout dat?" he asked in mock despair. "I's no' like I didn' do a good job."

"Once you turned up you were very effective," Storm replied, with some satisfaction at having needled him. "It was the fact that you were forty-five minutes late that inconvenienced everyone." Their relationship had started with him being the more dominant force, since she had, at the time, been encased in the pre-pubescent body of a twelve year old girl. Regaining both her body and her memory had turned the tables on him, and she felt it was important that he should remember this fact.

"The Professor has asked me to mentor Ms Jacobson," she explained, "I am going to get her things together, bring them to her, and then outline her new job description. That's all. It's unlikely to take more than an hour."

"Remy, knows what you gonna do, 'Ro. He just don' tink it's a good idea," he replied. Storm ignored the butterflies in her stomach and gave him a steady look that said, quite clearly, that she didn't much care _what_ he thought.

"Fine," he said, with an expressive shrug. "Jus' don' come running to Remy when diss all goes pear-shaped."

"I never do," she said softly as he stalked off. "You come running to me."

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

A little over an hour later Storm was sitting in the infirmary with an ice-pack on her hand when Remy barged in. "What Remy tol' you?" he stormed. "Remy said diss was a bad idea. He told you no' to go down dere. Next time maybe you listen to Remy, non?"

"I'm fine," she replied, a little acidly. "Thanks for asking."

"Le' Remy see dat hand," he said, taking it in both his and carefully peeling back the towel and ice. "Oh, Storm, what di' you do?" he asked shaking his head. "Dat fille must have a bump de size of a house."

"You'll make a matching pair," Storm replied smiling mirthlessly. Remy's own black eye was still very much apparent, marking the crown of one cheek bone.

"What did Remy teach you abou' hi'ing people in de face?" he asked in feigned exasperation. "You hit dem somewhere soft, not in de face." Storm allowed herself another wan little smile and didn't mention the fact that she had hurt her hand when it had collided with the wall, not with Ms Jacobson's face. The woman was faster than she looked. Storm still found it disconcerting that her first instinct had been to thump the woman. Normally when irritation engulfed her there was a lightening strike. This time using her mutation hadn't even occurred to her. It was as if she was too caught up in the moment to channel her power. When Hank had pulled her away there had been scarcely a breeze, and it wasn't until they were in the corridor outside the holding room that a wind came up, whipping Hanks fur into a tangle.

Remy noted the weakness of the smile and the absence of a comment. It didn't take an empath to figure out how Storm was feeling. He pulled her to him in a hug that was more comforting than she would ever have admitted. He knew anyway. It wasn't nice to know that you weren't in control of your own actions. And it certainly wasn't reassuring to realize that you were being used as a lab rat by your own colleagues, no matter how vital the data they were collecting might be. She didn't say any of that to Remy, of course, because that might have implied she needed him.

And besides, he knew anyway.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

"'Ro hit her?" Scott asked, incredulously.

"Yep," Jean replied, she was lying with her head resting on his chest and both his arms wrapped round her. "Right in the face."

"Why didn't she fry her?" Scott asked. "I mean, it's not that I think 'Ro should have fried her," he added, kissing Jeans hair, "but you know, it's more..." he paused and pushed her beautiful red hair behind her ear so he could kiss her cheek. "It's more 'Ro. When did 'Ro last hit anyone?"

"Don't know," Jean replied, turning to gaze up into his face, "maybe just after she arrived. Remember when Warren walked in on her when she was changing." Scott laughed at the memory. They'd _all_ wanted to walk in on Storm changing, but Warren was the only one who had taken the dare. Charles had _not_ been impressed.

"Exactly my point," he said, "it's not like her. And if you remember she flattened Warren with a mini-tornado the following day when he was taking off… So you think we're going to need to watch her for a revenge attack on Jay?"

"We've all grown up a lot since then," Jean said, flatly, and turned away. She rested her head on his chest again, lost in her own thoughts.

"That's true," Scott said, philosophically. It was a shame really. It was fun to be irresponsible but it was a privilege he rarely felt able to grant himself these days. The trouble of assuming authority was you had to be an authority.

"And Jay's mutation is certainly capable of making people act out of character," Jean added softly, almost to herself. She toyed again with the idea of telling him.

"I guess that's true too," Scott said. He sounded a little sad. Jean decided not to say anything. "Anyway, I suppose I'd better get back to those timetables. They're not going to write themselves," he said. He absent-mindedly ran his hand over her waist as he spoke.

"Stay right where you are," Jean said making the effort to inject lightness into her voice as she stood. She looked down at him and felt his smirk, tugging at her lips. Few people but Scott had ever seen the expression on _her_ face, so they thought of it as his smirk. She knew different. "You can play with your timetables when you're on duty. For the next seventy-three minutes you're mine." She turned away, unselfconsciously adding a little extra into her walk.

As he rose to follow her he was grinning. "I guess we'd better hurry," he said.

Luckily for him, it was often possible to have fun responsibly.

She laughed.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo


	10. Which contains well bad trouble, man

Well I suppose _that_ meeting falls into the category of 'things that could have gone better.' I just hope my nose isn't actually broken. Not that anyone here seems to care. Munroe got pulled out. The door slapped closed and bolted itself and there was silence. I spent five minutes trying to stop a nose bleed on the sleeve of one of my smart work shirts before the door slid silently open again. Sitting in the corridor was an ice pack wrapped in a towel, cotton wool and a note. It said: 'Insert cotton wool into nose to stop bleeding. Wet towel and put ice pack inside before applying.' Nice.

Anyway, at least Munroe brought me my stuff, so I've got some clothes to change in to once the bleeding stops. It would have been really depressing to be sitting in a bloody shirt for the rest of the evening. She also brought me some books, and not all of them are weighty tomes on the subject of teaching methods - she only gave me three of those. 'To give me some suggestions,' apparently. Hah. But to give credit where it's due, some of the books are even novels, so at least I can leave this world and go off into another one for a while.

"Ms Jay?" the voice is small and cautious. Since it's after curfew I'm not surprised by the caution but I'm not sure whose voice it is. I put my book down and listen carefully. "Ms Jay? Are you, like, in there?" Ah. I know who it is.

"Hey Jubilee," I say. I'm not in the mood to play. "You're meant to be in your room."

"Yeah, like, I know but, y'know, we were gonna come, like, earlier, but we weren't like, allowed or whatever and we, like, wanted you to, y'know, know or whatever," she says, as if all should be clear now. You can hear how nervous she's feeling by the amount of y'know and whatevers.

"What did you want me to know, Jubilee?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle. In all the ways this situation is screwed up, I'm not about to take it out on some poor kid. As a teacher you spend so long pretending outrage over the tiniest infractions that it seems natural to the kids that you'll be angry about everything, but really what right have I got to be pissed about this? I'm the one that fucked up, and if they spread it round like gossip, well it's no more than I deserve, right?

I wonder whether it'll get around about Munroe...

"Like, we never told anyone. Y'know? We never, like, said anything when we got back. We never, y'know, like, called you a murderer or whatever. Honest." It's the honest that kills me. I can almost see the worried little face. Swee-eet.

"I believe you didn't say anything, Jubes," I say, it might be unprofessional to use a shortening but I always do it. I was always getting told off in my last job – but it didn't stop me there either. I had one boy we used to call Beatrix, after we did some work on Beatrix Potter. He said it made him feel clever. How can making them feel clever be wrong? "Don't worry about it. I'm not cross about it anyway, but you can't speak for the others. Kitty and Rogue might have said something. They might not even have meant to, it just slipped out. And even if they did I wouldn't be pissed about it. It's just something that happenned."

"Iyt's true, Ms Jaicobsson. way nevur sed nothing. Nune of urs diyd, diyd way Kitty?" I identify the accent easily. Mentally translating the words is more difficult. She sounds worried as well.

"We didn't," Kitty says. She sounds slightly surly, like admitting it bothers her. Then she says in a rush, like maybe someone elbowed her to get her to say more. "We know why you had to do what you did. There wasn't a choice. You had to kill her, otherwise who knows what might have happened." I feel that cold you get when someone says something that they really mean, and that you really needed to hear them say.

If it's not actually true they are damn fine liars!

"Thanks," I say, after a pause.

"Ladies," I hear. Mr Summers, stern. Yum.

"Oh shit," Jubilee says, surprised.

Well bad trouble man. You girls got _sprung_! I think trying not to laugh. Since they were being dead sweet that seems a little unfair...


	11. Wherein thoughts on devastating sexiness

"Jubilation Lee, I don't expect to hear that kind of language," Scott Summers continues to sound stern. What was that I said about pretended outrage? Did I mention that in the right voice it can be devastatingly sexy?

_Eeek_. I hope my pretend outrage isn't devastatingly sexy. _Yeuch!_ _**Gross!**_

"Oh bleep," Jubilee says, sarcastically. I'm having to imagine the scene, but from where I'm sitting it sounds really funny. I bite my lips together hard to keep from laughing. Laughing internally, I decide, is okay. It's laughing audibly that would be unfair.

"Jubilee," he says, and his voice contains a warning. Wisely the girl doesn't respond this time.

"Rogue, I'm disappointed in you, you're supposed to be student representative," he continues. I hear a mumble from the girl that sounds like it might contain words if you were a cryptographer.

"Hmm, well, I'll expect you both to be in your rooms by the time I get back upstairs or you'll both have detention with me tomorrow."

I sincerely hope his voice isn't having the same effect on them that it's having on me! I'd _want_ to be in detention tomorrow!

"Yeah right, like, whatever, Mr Summers sir," says Jubilation Lee as if she is totally unconcerned by the threat. She probably is. I guess he's not her type.

"Come on Rogue, we'd like, better split. It's past curfew y'know. We, like, need our beauty sleep." Her voice is receding. I'm hoping she's flouncing down the corridor.. Man that kid has guts. But hang on, where's Kitty? Hold it, is that an arm poking out of the wall? Holy shit, that's freaky.

"I'm letting you know now, Kitty," Scott says once Jubilee's voice is out of earshot. This time his tone is conversational, like he is talking to thin air.

Actually, he probably is talking to thin air. The arm isn't moving, it's frozen half out of the wall like she doesn't want to give herself away.

"You've got a detention tomorrow afternoon with me for tampering with the alarm system and shutting off the monitors in the control room. If I get upstairs and find out you are breaking curfew you'll have two detentions. And if I have to spend one second of my time fixing the system this evening, it'll be a week's worth. You'd better move **fast**." The arm flinches but the girl doesn't move.

"Don't give them detention," I call. There's no response. "Scott," I call again as I catch Kitty's hand and pull her into the room with me and put a finger to my lips to keep her quiet. She looks startled at first and then I guess she catches a look at my face because startled changes to properly stunned. I should probably look in a mirror at some point.

"Scott? Don't give them detention." I call again, then point her towards the stairs mouthing; 'That way. I'll distract him.'

She smiles her understanding and thanks, then moves silently towards the stairs. Smart kid, that one, even if she is a bit of a know-it-all sod. I feel positively friendly towards her at the moment. She doesn't even seem slightly annoyed with me. It makes a pleasant change…

"Oh come on Scott, they didn't mean any harm," I call. "And you can't prove Kitty was even involved."

"You'll learn," he replies, shortly. His voice is closer than I expected it to be. It's also still a little snippy. "Kids need rules, and this little escapade has Kitty's fingerprints all over it. She needs to stop hacking into things. She's too good at it."

I'll just bet she is.

"But she didn't do any harm, even if it was her. Cut her some slack, man," I call, trying to keep it light and flirty. Trying to ignore the irritation in his voice. It's less attractive when it's aimed at me, perhaps because it feels more real.

"No dice," he replies. "She needs to know she got caught this time and that it's not okay for her to access whatever the hell she wants."

"Oh come on, she knows that. You don't think she's making ethical decisions about that stuff all the time?" I call.

"We'll see," he replies, snippy. I hear his footsteps, receding down the corridor. Indefinably, they sound angry too. Shit. I guess I pissed him off, but I really don't want the kid to get a detention for this.

Of course, maybe that's not what he's pissed about.

But then maybe he's not angry at all and I'm just developing a healthy dose of paranoia.

Getting thumped in the nose'll do that to a person.


	12. Concerning a cheeky bugger and breakfast

The thing about basement rooms is that they are dark. Even when it's broad daylight outside, they are dark. This one is completely dark. Now some people have an internal clock that tells them what the time is by magic. I figure I was behind the door when they handed out the magic internal clock gadget, because I have been blessed with absolutely NO concept of time. None at all. I could sleep for days if it wasn't for the fact that it gets light occasionally, or failing that, alarm clocks start going off if you stay asleep too long. So anyway, my point is, I've been asleep and now I'm sort of vaguely wandering in the direction of _not_ _being _asleep. Not that I'm _awake_ exactly. Just not totally asleep.

Given I'm _slightly_ awake, and I'm curious by nature, I decide turning on a lamp and checking the time isn't a totally stupid idea. I turn on the light and squinch my face up in agony as light pokes me in the eyes. I crack one eye, trying to get used to the idea of light. Stupid idea, light, in my opinion.

I manage, after a period, to get one eye open enough to see through. I know there is a clock on the wall. I can hear it ticking. What I can't do is see it. If you are sufficiently short sighted you will understand this. Otherwise don't even try. It's not that I can't read the clock, because it's all blurry. I actually can't see the clock. I can see the wall. It is large and white.

I know the clock is on the wall. I just can't see it.

Nothing.

When I say short sighted, I'm serious.

Since I have no idea where my glasses are this could be a problem. The question I am now asking myself is; am I sufficiently curious about the time to persevere?

Hmm.

Not sure.

Could just go back to sleep.

I shut my eyes and relax. I mean, it's not like I have to get up or anything, anyway. It's only because I'm curious that I'm putting myself through this at all. Maybe it's just a stupid idea altogether.

But I might be missing food! Horrors! Plus, if it's three o'clock in the morning, I can legitimately be a bit vexed about waking up… Who, in their right mind, would want to pass up the opportunity for a little well earned grumpiness?

Okay.

I reach over the side of the bed and pat the floor. I would open my eyes, but I really can't be bothered. And anyway, there's no point. Plus there's nothing funnier than watching people looking for their glasses like this. For the mental image alone, it's worth patting the floor in the vain hope of discovering them.

Too my surprise my hand falls on them relatively quickly. Triumph. I slip them on and peer up at the clock. Seven forty-five.

Probably not missing lunch, then.

Damn.

But on the plus side I have missed forty-five minutes of the dubiously named Fizz Ed class, which is nice to know. Points to the curiosity gene. I smile a smug smile. I take the glasses off again and snuggle deeper into my blankets.

In my last job, by this time I would normally have been at work for and hour and forty-five minutes. My smile becomes even more smug. There are definitely worse things in life than being locked in a basement as a result of a haywire mutation. I mean it might get old after a while, but right now a lie-in is most welcome. Sleep.

BLEEP-BLEEP. BLEEP-BLEEP. BLEEP-BLEEP. BLEEP-BLEEP.

Fuck. Who the hell would be ringing me at... sometime after seven forty-five in the morning? Who the hell has the number for Christ's sake? My mobile isn't even working. Another advantage of being in the basement…

I turn on the light again and peer myopically towards the sound.

A dark blur covers the area that may well contain a ringing handset.

"Come here if you want to talk to me," I tell it. By the fact that it doesn't, I'm given to assume that my mutation doesn't include telekinetic powers. This seems most unfair if you ask me. I glare at the blur and will the phone to come to me or shut up.

Neither thing happens.

"Fine," I say out loud. I wrap the blankets around me and stumble over, not bothering with glasses this time.

Echo location is a useful skill.

I find the phone quite quickly, pick it up and tell it to shut up.

It does.

I carry it back to bed with me just in case it should start ringing again. Hopefully during this period, whoever was on the other end will have given up and gone away. I can't think of anyone I particularly want to talk to right now.

"What?" I say, unfriendly like, into the receiver, just in case there is still someone there.

"Hey fille," a voice replies. What the hell does he want? I humph at him, hoping to discourage him.

"Remy be sittin' 'ere be'ind a grea' big pile of marking an' 'e tought to 'imself; 'Why Remy doin' all diss markin' when dat fille be sittin' dere wi' nothin' to do?' So Remy decided to send you some markin'. Remy need it before secon' session if possible. Is in de hatch wi' breakfast."

The audacity of it makes me laugh out loud. "You cheeky bugger," I say.

"Don' worry, Remy be tellin' Stormy it was de fille's idea. So you could get to know de kids even tho' you not be teachin' dem," he says, cheerfully. I laugh again and find myself involuntarily shaking my head, properly awake now. Laughter does that to me.

"What's it worth?" I ask.

"You don' tink tellin' 'Ro is enough?" he asks. "She's pretty pissed. She hurt her hand pretty bad, you know."

"Oh sod off, LeBeau. She hurt it trying to thump me. I did _nothing_ to her."

"Well sure but _you_ try tellin' her dat," he replies. I have to admit, he has a point.

"Fine," I reply. "One set of books, though, from one class, with one piece of work in them. I'm not doing more than that unless you are paying me in beer."

"Sounds fair to Remy," he says and we hang up.

Cheeky sod.

I wonder what's for breakfast.

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Please review. I appreciate it. I'd like to know there are still people enjoying it - if there still are people enjoying it. If not, let me know what was boring... please.

Oh and thanks to the people who are reviewing - you make my day!


	13. In which one minus one equals two

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I was in the middle of Remy's marking when a screen lowered itself from the ceiling. The screen showed the inside of the Prof's study. I could see Munroe, Gray, McCoy, Summers part one and Ex himself, sitting there wearing identical expressions of sympathetic concern. I guess I could understand, I mean what other expression could they wear? Still it's irritating to be on the receiving end, if you know what I mean.

It was even more annoying to realise I was totally looking the part of a teacher, I had a pencil stuffed through my hair and a second one behind my ear. I'd found both in the books and absent-mindedly removed and stored them. It's useful to have several writing implements stored about your person when teaching. It removes the commonest excuses for wandering the room. They say; "I was just…" and you silently hold a writing implement up in front of them. They generally look at the floor and sit down again quickly without finishing the sentence. Still, the pencil in the hair is a dead give away as to your profession and it's generally wise to remove them before you go down the pub after work...

Worse than the pencils, though was the fact that I was sitting behind a pile of marking and smiling to myself. You never want to let people see you smiling when you are marking. If they think you enjoy it they'll try and give you more. The reason I was smiling (aside from the fact that marking really doesn't upset me, and has been known to fill me with quiet satisfaction) was that I only had five more books to go. On top of that, I was marking maths, which is easy. And finally, I had decided I wasn't too worried about what I wrote in the books and I might as well enjoy myself. In several books my comment had been along the lines of: "Oh good grief!" next to a worked example showing their silly mistakes. Who knows how US kids would react to this style of marking, but if I was going to stay, the little buggers would just have to get used to it.

Anyway, my point is, I definitely looked more 'mild mannered Amanda Jacobson, teacher', than 'Amanda Jacobson, sex Goddess,' or even 'Amanda Jacobson, evil genius.' I have always hated the idea of being mild mannered Amanda Jacobson, even if it is mostly true. And I especially hate looking like a teacher. Even if that is what I am.

More irritating still, when they told me I had been controlling peoples minds, "In a manner very similar to the one employed by your mother…" for most of my life all I could say for a while was "Oh?"

After a little pause, they kept talking, explaining results and tests and things. I, naturally enough, didn't listen. My mind was whirring. Eventually the whirring resolved itself into words, all of which I said out loud at a pretty decent volume – I couldn't see any good reason not to. The words were all expletives. They stopped talking when I started swearing, and seemed to be listening. Probably trying to expand their vocabularies. I may not be the best teacher in the world but I sure can cuss.

After a while, just as one of them seemed to be about to speak, I remember asking, "Well how the bloody hell am I supposed to trust any bugger from now fucking on then? I mean shit. How am I supposed to know what the bollocks they really sodding think of me if I'm pissing well controlling their crappy little minds?"

"More to the point," Ms Munroe had replied, "how is anyone to trust you?"

That more or less finished that part of the conversation. I mean, seriously, what the hell is one supposed to say to that. Plus I was kind of embarrassed not to have thought of that myself. How fucking self-centred am I?

"Can you turn it off?" I had asked after an appropriate interval. I know my eyes were pleading. No-one should have this kind of power over people. I mean seriously, to be able to compel people to adore you, to do your bidding, to want what you want. What happened to healthy debate? What happened to the right to an independent voice? _And_ (added a little voice in the back of my soul)_ if all this was true, how come some people still didn't like me? What's that about? Surely I should be beloved by all... even... shudder... Ms Munroe._

Hank had started on some lengthy pontificating about how that wasn't how mutation worked but the Prof had cut him off. "Actually, in Ms Jacobson's case this is not entirely accurate, Hank," he had said. "As her mutation has little physical manifestation, and is contained predominately within the consciousness, it would, in fact, be possible to insert blocks to effectively remove or completely disable the mutation."

"Has that ever worked," Jean had asked, apparently shocked at the concept. The Prof had nodded, without looking at her. Okay, odd vibe there.

"However I would be reluctant to take such drastic action. There would be some significant degree of risk involved and I feel, Ms Jacobson, that by the exertion of your considerable will power you would be entirely capable to learning to control this mutation. And it is a mutation that could be of considerable benefit..."

"Why bother?" I interrupted. I meant it too. "Just take it away. I never asked for it. I don't want it. It's fucked. I don't want to turn into her."

And at that point they stopped talking to me and started talking around me. I heard words like shock, denial, fuller understanding, acceptance, time, you know the type of thing. So I quietly went back to my marking. They might be right, they might be wrong but since it was my denial I might as well make the most of it and get Remy's marking done, right?

"Oh please," I muttered, and then wrote the phrase in the book. Some kid, working a long problem, had made one minus one equal two. I knew that feeling. "Oops!" I wrote with an arrow pointing to the offending digit.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

Sorry for the long gap. I've been busy, and I lost a lot of my enthusiasm for this story - hopefully this is back now, although obviously reviews would help... Please. Thanks, postgate.


	14. Containing pyromania and excess marking

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The advantage of being in prison is that there is very little need for you to take responsibility for yourself. You are told what to do and when to do it. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are provided for you. So is work. Solitary confinement makes things even simpler. You don't even speak to anyone, food turns up at given times, you don't have to negotiate with other inmates for little privileges. There aren't any. That's pretty much it. Being in this room is very like solitary confinement – except that the not speaking to anyone part is my decision, and let's face it the food is one hell of a lot better. Also Remy sent me some cigarettes down with his second set of marking, so privileges are obviously easier to come by down here than they would be in the average prison setting... Still, you take my point.

I daren't come out, because whenever I get close to someone I start influencing their minds so they want to kill me. They can't let me out in case they accidentally kill me. Whichever way you look at it, it's not pretty.

But I'm not convinced. I mean, doesn't this rely rather heavily on the idea that I want people to kill me. I don't mean to be funny or anything, but this has never been the greatest ambition of my life. In fact, and I think my record is pretty clear on this, whenever somebody has tried to kill me in the past, I've tried really hard _not_ to be killed. This suggests, perhaps, that I don't want people to kill me after all and maybe all their fancy tests are a load of bollocks.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

I'm not sure whether work turns up for prisoners in solitary confinement. Probably. I mean just because they are on their own in a box doesn't stop them from being able to sew mailbags, right? Work is certainly turning up for me. I have stacks of marking from almost every teacher here. Scott even went so far as to suggest I re-write their marking policy. I didn't even look at him, which was easy since I was doing sit ups. I'm pretty sure he didn't see me roll my eyes either. I mean I know I'm a teacher and schools have to jump through hoops so they don't get randomly shut down but puh-lease. I think the people who would shut us down would be more interested in the underground mutant freedom fighter aspect of this organisation than the policies… Actually, saying that I'm not so sure. They can get a bit obsessed with random bits of paper. Still there have to be some advantages to being locked in the basement. At least I should be allowed to avoid the avalanche of pointless paperwork.

So everyone is sending me marking, which I do and return because I'm not a completely selfish bitch, no matter what people might think. Some of them sent notes with their marking. Fortunately Remy sent me a lighter and an ash tray along with my cigarettes. They stopped sending notes when I kept burning them. They still try to talk with me about the mutation. Every day the vid screen comes down at different times and with different people trying different tactics. I don't answer the phone and when the vid screen flickers into life I make sure I'm doing something – you know, push-ups, pulls-ups, sit ups, leg lifts, whatever. Something tough. Something non-teacherly. I don't want to talk about it.

The thing they need to understand is this: I don't want to be a mutant. Yes, okay, lots of mutants might feel like that, but _I_ don't actually have to _be_ one. _They_ could get rid of it. They are refusing to, though, until I am able to discuss it. I'm refusing to discuss it until they take it away. Don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid. I know the process. I know they are right and that I'll come round eventually to acceptance. I will almost certainly be ready to discuss it at some point, but right now I'm in the whole anger-denial phase. Or is that denial then anger? Maybe it's bargaining? Anyway, whatever the terminology, that's where I am and while yes, in all likelihood I will get to acceptance, I'm not bloody-well there yet so shut up and leave me alone.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

So yeah. Remy and Logan send beer and cigarettes. Kurt Wagner and Alex Summers have made my heart do flip-flops by sending cookies, then ice-cream and most recently flowers. McCoy, Scott and Jean are sending me novels. No I don't read them when the vid screen is on. Yes I do read them. There is no t.v. down here and a girl can't survive on ice-cream and marking alone... Munroe and Warren Worthington III haven't sent me any marking at all. I hope it's because they think I might burn it. I've always fancied having a reputation as a pyromaniac. The Professor seems to be ignoring me. At some point I guess I'll have to talk to someone. I'm just not ready yet.

"Hey, Missy, you still in there?" a voice calls through the door.

And the last person in the fucking world I'm going to talk to is _**him**_!

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo


	15. During which Wolverine is renamed McDuff

This is what I wanted to call it but there wasn't enough space in the chapter bar. Damned restrictions.

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Introducing an arrogant, suicidal, British, idiot.

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

"Listen, bub, I don't think she wants to see anyone right now," Wolverine growled.

"That's nice for her, but I need to see her and I'm not overly bothered by what she wants," Pete Wisdom snapped back getting right up into the Wolverine's face and thus proving himself to be a complete idiot.

"She ain't talkin' to no-one else, bub, she's not about to start talkin' to you," Wolverine snarled back thrusting himself forwards and unsheathing his claws to show this complete idiot how close he was to piercing death.

"And I don't care if that girl _is_ in a fit of the bloody sulks," Wisdom replied testily. "I need her to do some sodding work for me so she better damn well snap out of it."

"Oh well, I'm sure if you explain it to her just like that she'll listen," the Wolverine replied sarcastically, eyes narrowing. "It's a real shame you can't get down there without my say so, and guess what? I don't fuckin' well say so. So get lost."

"I need to speak to her," Pete Wisdom said, refusing to back down and proving once more that he was thick as pig shit.

"Logan, did you ask him what his business was?" Scott Summers asked from the doorway behind Wolverine.

"He wants to speak to Jay," Wolverine snarled back. "I was just explaining how she don't feel much like talkin' these days."

"And I was _attempting _to explain to your rottweiler here that I don't especially _want_ to talk to her, I _need _to talk to her, and that whatever the gaurd dog might think, she _will_ talk to me, if only because she has to." Pete Wisdom hadn't done a great deal to impress anyone the last time he'd been at the Institute. It didn't look like he was making a much better job of it on this occasion, either. Thus Scott was careful not to let even a trace of a smile register on his face. It would have been ungentlemanly. Still, he was going to savour this suicidal idiot referring to the Wolverine as a rottweiler for the rest of his days.

"She's not exactly safe to be around at the moment," Scott said, coolly and carefully, keeping his amusment out of his voice. "She seems to be causing people to want to hurt her."

"Well that's nothing bloody new is it? I've spent years working on not killing the silly little cow," Pete Wisdom said smiling his most charming smile at Scott. Scott rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that, ungentlemanly though it may be, no-one could see _that_. "Believe me, if she's in a fit of the sulks, it won't be anything I haven't dealt with before," Wisdom went on with the kind of arrogance that always grated on Scott's nerves. "I'll bet you fifty quid I can snap her out of it in less than two hours."

"You're on," Wolverine replied and stuck out his hand. The arrogant British idiot shook it.

"Lead on, McDuff," he said. Wolverine rolled his own eyes and started to lead the way down into the basement.

"Now hold on a second," Scott called after them. Both Wolverine and Wisdom ignored him. He clattered down the steps after them. "Hang on," Scott called again, catching them up. "Her mutation's entered her subconscious. She doesn't have control of it. It's causing everybody that comes within twenty feet of her to become filled with irrational anger."

"Yeah," Pete said, turning to face him. "It does that after she kills someone, but she'll have to snap out of it because I need her to do some bloody work."

oooOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOooo

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Health Warning: Do not read this section if you are allergic to authors begging for reviews.

Please review. Pretty please with sugar on top. Just tell me you are still reading... Please! Even if all you say is: Yes. It'll make me feel better. Please. Okay, I'm done. Thanks, postgate.


	16. Musings on the subject of Lucozade

"Hey, Missy, you still in there?" he calls through the door. I'm doing sit ups but his voice make me freeze, startled and listening closely. I don't respond though. I don't want to talk to him.

"Okay, that was a stupid question, but I don't like to be ignored," he calls after a suitable interval of silence. He sounds slightly irritated, but since that's not even approaching how pissed off I'm feeling, I decide to keep both my door and my mouth firmly closed.

"I'm not going away, sweetheart. You're gonna have to answer me at some point," he calls. I can almost feel him waiting for a response. Good luck to him I say. He can sit out there and rot as far as I'm concerned. Where the hell did he come from anyway? I'm sure he wasn't here when I came back from Wales. I would have noticed.

"Come on, Jay," he calls. I don't open the door. I don't gouge his eyes out. It's important that we put things in perspective in situations like these.

"I'm trying to help here," he calls, but the tone of voice says I'm trying to wind you up.

"Hah!" The response was entirely involuntary, that tone of voice obviously works. Bastard. But then, as he has already pointed out, he knows I'm in here. Of course, having been on the other side of the door I know that any response, however slight, feels like encouragement. So I made a mistake in making a noise. It's not like that's the biggest mistake I've made recently.

"I've got booze," he calls. Oh siren song. Logan hasn't sent me a six-pack for days.

"Hah," I say again, but quietly this time so I know he can't hear it and see it as encouragement. Pete Wisdom _always_ has booze. He doesn't share though, oh no, he just uses it to try and lure people into places where they shouldn't be. The only time you get even a _smell_ of Pete Wisdom's booze is if he's trying to get you to do something common sense tells you that you shouldn't. That and when he's trying to get into your knickers – not that he ever tried to get into my knickers, but when we were faking it he used to let me have a whiff of the good stuff. Apart from that, he guards the booze as carefully as he guards his fags, all the while nicking your lighter, I might add.

"Look at least let me borrow your lighter if you're not going to answer," he says, still playful. See what I mean? But the thing is the bastard has made me smile. I know this room is being monitored. I should have hidden the smile. Another sodding mistake. I scowl, trying to make up for it. There is a long silence now, but I know he is still there because I know him. I_ know_ him, and he _knows _me. Bastard.

"Come on Jay. I can help. You know I can. I bought you some lucozade," he says at last. This time, when he says it the playfulness is gone from his voice. It's serious. I'm close to opening the door to that voice, but part of me still doesn't want to. He might try and kill me, and it wouldn't be his fault. It would be because of this stupid mutation that I can't control. No-one knows what to do about it. It's not like he's going to be able to do anything, is it?

"Last time you bought me Lucozade I ended up working as a whore," I call to him. Even _I_ can hear the current of despair that underlies the playfulness in my voice. It's practically begging him to keep going.

What the hell, like he says, he's not going anywhere.

Lucozade, by the way, is a synonym for whiskey. You hide it in Lucozade bottles so you can sneak it into hospitals. And occasionally some particulalry boring meetings. And anywhere, really, where you might be discouraged from drinking the hard stuff openly but you think you might want to.

There is another long pause.

"That's not true," he says. "That was the second time I bought you Lucozade. The last time I bought you Lucozade you signed up for university."

Oh Jesus, that was quite a night. I smile at the memory. His; "Come on, sweetheart, just sign here, you know you want to." What a fucking line! Next thing I know I'm stuck in an office and doing a degree. What was that line about Greek's bearing gifts?

"Come on, sweetheart, open the door. You know you want to," he says.

I can't help myself.

I giggle.


	17. The discovery that mutations can be FUN

The man could talk for England. In fact, if you think about it, that's sort of what he does. I mean, working for the service, that's sort of talking for England – although it also involves doing a variety of other things for England to. In some cases even lying back and thinking of her.

The thing is though, I can't stop listening to him. Maybe it's the hypnotic tone of his voice, or maybe it's because I know that he's seen the very worst of me before, and still hasn't run away screaming. Maybe it's just that I'm so desperate to hear a voice of approval that I can't tear myself away... Whatever it is, he makes me feel warm and safe and young again. He talks me into that amazing feeling of invulnerable immortality. A dangerous place to be, but mighty powerful.

"You wiped the floor with them, sweetheart. No-one else could have done what you did, couldn't have gotten in so damn fast. It was the most amazing thing we'd ever seen from an operative of your age. God knows how many more children the Human Hands would have hurt if you hadn't gone into that nursery. Like bloody magic, sweetheart. Without your mutation those little kids might never've been saved."

Wait a second. What did he say? "What do you mean, without my mutation they might never've been saved?"

"Oh come on, Missy. This isn't new. You don't think I employed you withou' checkin' ou' your powers, d'ya? Think about it, sweetheart. We been 'ere before. More than once." He's gone extra Cockney. Glottal stops 'r' us. Means he's trying to piss me off. It's working 'n' all. I use some swear words that a lot of people don't like. I use it loudly, with wide eyes, staring at the door. Shocked.

"Tell me what you really think, eh?" he replies. I can _hear_ his fucking grin. Tosser thinks he's winning.

"You knew? _**You wanker**_. You fuckin' knew. You knew and you never fuckin' said nuffin'. I swear down… I'm gonna kill you. You're fuckin' dead man. I'm gunna kill you, you arsehole…"

And what makes the tirade worse is that I can hear him laughing from the other side of the door. I'm on my feet, eyes narrow, opening the door, cannoning through it, slamming him back into the wall opposite. The hollow sound is from his empty head hitting the solid wall.

"Fuckin' funny is it?" I ask, fishing inside his coat for the booze, pushing him into the wall with all my body weight. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you and you think it's fucking FUNNY?" Except it is kinda funny and I'm trying hard to keep from laughing. Still, I'm a teacher. I can hold on to fake mad even when I'm trying not to laugh. We get enough practice.

He keeps laughing as he says. "Damn straight I think it's funny, sweetheart. Means you're back and it's about bloody time. I got a job for you." He could push me away easily. He's bigger and stronger than me, but he doesn't. He lets me have my moment. I pocket his flask.

"I'll be a bloody undertaker if you like, you wanker," I say, shoving him back and then stepping away from him holding up his fags as well. He grins at me and sticks out his hand. I give his hand a withering look. I ain't falling for that one, love. Last time I shook your fucking hand you got me in a head lock. His grin, if anything, gets both wider and nastier. He can probably read my thoughts.

"Taught ya well, Missy. Did a good job on you. Want ya back."

"I've gotta job," I point out raising my eyebrows.

"Human Hands are back," he replies, raising his eyebrows right back at me. "They've taken Angie. You don't want to help get her back, just let me know."

Oh crap. I pocket the fags and take a sip of the hard stuff.

"Shit," I say.

"I'll drink to that," he says. I give him a second withering look.

"Think I'm sharing with you, sweetheart, you're in cloud cuckoo land," I reply.

"I could take it off you," he points out. I look at him and smile.

"I've got a mutation, apparently," I say, nastily. "And I don't think you'll even _try_." He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"You're supposed to use your powers for good," he says.

I just laugh.

On second thoughts this mutation might be fun.


	18. Containing musings on Logan's strengths

Watching on the vid screen, they saw the change in her. As soon as she heard Wisdom's voice for the first time, her body language changed. Previously she had always carried on, ignoring any interruption, sit ups, push ups, press ups, whatever. This time she stops and stares at the door like a startled cat. "Well that's interesting," Scott said softly.

"I don't know about interesting but he's got less than two hours to go before he owes me fifty." Logan snarled back. And things look good as far as Logan is concerned. She may be listening but she isn't responding. Then, suddenly; "Hah!" It's the first word anyone has heard her speak in days. She has hummed and sang, but not actually spoken, even to herself. At first she spoke out loud as she did the marking, but not any more.

"Shit," Logan growls. Scott smiles.

"Have you let the Professor know?" Logan asks.

"Of course," Scott replies, rolling his eyes. "Shush."

"Hah," the voice comes again, quietly this time. And this time the two X-men exchange a smile. However much Logan might want the fifty, he's pleased by this sign of recovery. She's scowling, still, but she spoke.

"Twenty minutes and counting," Logan rumbles, glancing at the clock.

"Last time you bought me Lucozade I ended up working as a whore," she calls.

"Do you think he _did_ know about her mutation?" Logan asks, pretending to ignore that one. It doesn't sound optimistic.

Scott just nods. "What an asshole," Logan rumbles.

Scott nods again. "I told Xavier, and Jean," he says. "I don't know what else to do."

Logan shrugs like he doesn't care. "Wait," he says. "It's not like he can leave without going past us and I, for one, am not planning on letting that asshole just walk the hell out of here." Scott smiles. It has to be admitted that Logan has his strengths. No-one could call him indecisive.

It's nearly forty minutes before they hear her voice again. She doesn't look angry now, just small and vulnerable. And just maybe, a little bit like she's seen something that other people haven't. It's an old-young look that they see all too often on the faces of the kids. They don't talk about it, but they see it on each other's faces too. Everyone in this place has a past.

Behind them the Professor enters the obs room. "Well this is a welcome change," he says, looking at the screen. "It looks as if young Amanda may return to us. Did he tell you why he was here?"

"Just that he had a job for her, Professor," Scott replied. "She's spoken to him a couple of times, but nothing recent. Seems like Remy, she responded to him for a bit, then stopped."

"And Mr Wisdom has been talking about?"

"The past, mostly. Sounds like they worked a series of jobs together before she was retired." This conversation is interrupted by Amanda's voice, confused. "What do you mean, without my mutation they might never've been saved?"

"So now she knows," Logan growls. "What an asshole." The kid looks stunned. Like someone hit her between the eyes with a mallet. Logan watches as her expression changes and she tells that asshole what he is. He smiles. "You tell him, kid," he rumbles. And then the door is open and she's out in the corridor, still shouting, pinning Wisdom up against the wall. "Go on," Logan rumbles at the screen.

"Jesus Christ she's going to kill him," Scott breathes.

"Good on her," Logan grins.

"I'd better get down there!" Scott says.

"No, Scott, wait. I think we should not interfere. I think this may be exactly what she needs. I can feel… a change," the Professor says, enigmatically. Scott, ever obedient, stays, but he stays on his feet. Ready.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Oops, I'm so sorry. This one was supposed to be BEFORE the last one. Damn. Sorry, please review and shout at me... postgate.


	19. Containing an overdose of testosterone

I look back at the room I have just left, considering what I might need to take with me. Now I'm out, I don't want to go back in. People get like that about places they've been locked in. In fact...

Brup-brup. Brup-brup.

Wisdom's phone rings. The ringing cuts through me, jerking me back to the present. "Excuse me a second," Pete says, holding up a finger and turning away. "Hold your horses, Screech, we'll be out in a minute. Jeez," he says as he hangs up. "You would think the man would have learned a little patience after all these years. Everything's now, now, now with him." I blink at him then look gloomily back at the room. If nothing else, I gonna need my passport. Maybe some shoes. In and out, I can get those things quickly. It's no big deal.

"Look, don't worry about your stuff. Everything you need is in the car already," he tells me as if I spoke my thoughts out loud. People have done that to me all my life. Not long ago I just thought I had an expressive face. Now I know the truth, though, and it feels creepy. He knows what I'm thinking because I'm forcing my thoughts into his head. Yick. Still, on the bright side, it means I don't have to go back into that room and I'm all in favour of that. I hope he's got the Teresa Arnhiem passport. It's got a great photo. Plus I love the name Tess. If it's the Janey Wilson one I'm going to sulk.

We turn together to head on out – which is when Logan appears at the end of the corridor. His claws are out. His narrowed eyes are on Wisdom. I'm glad he's not looking at me like that. He doesn't look friendly.

Naturally enough Pete smiles at him. The man has no sense of self preservation. "Ah, McDuff, so nice to see you again. You owe me money," he says, cheerfully. You see what I mean? It's like he _wants_ to get shredded. If looks could kill, Pete would be long gone.

"You know, you don't have to go with him, kid," Logan snarls, ignoring Wisdom's remark. He still isn't looking at me, though; his eyes are fixed on Wisdom.

"Yeah, actually I kinda do," I reply. Logan's eyes flick to me and then back to Pete. He puts his head on one side as if he is willing Wisdom to say something else. Wow, you can, like, totally smell the testosterone in this room.

"I'm serious, Jay, you shouldn't go with him," Logan rumbles at me. "You can't trust him, he's a stinking liar. We'll save the kid. It's what we do. You don't have to work with this piece of shit."

"Thanks," Pete says. "I love being called a piece of shit by an animal. Especially an animal who still owes me money…" His arms have come out at his sides. I can see him focusing. "...it gives me an excuse."

So the question on everyone's lips is obviously: 'Who would win in a fight between the Wolverine and Winston Blade?' and for about half a second I'm tempted to let it play and find out. Then I think about how ugly bloodstains are and I decide to intervene. I don't want to have to repaint the corridor.

"Shut up, you arsehole," I tell Wisdom. "Look, Logan, he may be an unreliable little shit but this is what _he_ does, too. And he's actually pretty fucking good at it. And he's done the background. And, God help me, I trust him."

Pete turns to look at me over his shoulder and grins at me. I'm not sure if the grin is telling me I'm stupid, or that he's flattered. "That's mighty sweet of you Missy," he says, flirtatious.

"Oh will you please just _fuck off_," I tell him, losing my temper. "I said I trusted you, not that I'd forgiven you. You are a lying, manipulative scumbag and I swear to God if you call me Missy once more this century you are going to end up as a fucking grease spot. When I said I trusted you, I meant I trusted you not to intentionally get me killed. Carry on like this and you are not going to be able to reciprocate, clear?" He puts up his hands as if in surrender but there is amusement in every line of his body. Bastard thinks he's won.

"He knew you were a mutant and he didn't tell you. They used you because of your mutation and didn't even tell you what you were," Logan growls even as his claws retract. This time he sounds almost sad. Protective. If I thought it was really him, and not simply a projection of what I want to hear I would be flattered. Instead I'm irritatated by my own neediness.

"Identify much?" I snap. Then I shrug. "I've gotta go, Logan. Tell the Professor I'll be back as soon as I can?"

I pass him as I head towards the stairs. For a moment there is silence behind me, then I hear Wisdom's unmistakable stride following. At the top of the steps Scott Summers is waiting. He is leaning against the wall opposite and if he was any more relaxed, as the saying goes, he would be horizontal.

"You expecting to walk out on this job a second time?" he asks me.

"Not so much expecting as hoping," I reply, trying to sound cool. He smiles at me. Okay. I'm not cool, I'm kinda desperate. "Look, Scott, I have to go. Please. I don't want to argue about it. It's not going to change anything anyway. I'll lose the argument and then you'll be all pissy because I'll still go and you'll think I'm an irrational idiot, instead of a crappy debater." I'm looking him right in the sunglasses and for a moment it's as if they aren't there and I'm looking him right in the eyes. It's a very weird experience, I can tell you. When I say that about being a crappy debater he looks away smiling. He thinks I'm cute. Damn I'm good.

"I'm not here to argue with you," he says. "And don't worry about your job. Just do us all a favour and come back alive. We could really use a _**decent**_ qualified teacher around here. One who knows their limitations." We hear the claws come out behind us and share a minute smile.

"Thanks," I say.

When I reach the door, with Wisdom hot on my heels, I hear Logan's voice. "What the hell was that supposed to mean, bub?"

"Just that I can't afford to lose her, Logan, what did you think I meant?" I hear Scott asking all innocent.

"It's nice to know I'm not the only one with a sense of humour," I hear Wisdom murmur behind me.

Men.


	20. Which contains alternative viewpoints

"So now what?" Scott asks, watching as the scene calms down and Amanda steps away. "She can't go with him, surely. She can't trust him."

The Professor looks at him for a long moment. "It's vital that it should be her choice," he says. "If what Mr Wisdom says is true, if the Human Hands have risen again and taken a child, it's vital that they should be stopped."

"But surely _we_ could stop them, Professor," Scott said in an anguished tone. "He's using her. He's a liar. We can't trust him."

"If _she_ does, _we_ may have to," the Professor responds. "Don't worry, we will offer all the support she might need. Logan, could I ask you to go downstairs now and make it clear to her that she has a choice. That we will help her rescue the child if that is what she wants. Make her see that she does not have to trust this man if she does not feel able to." Logan nods and heads out.

"You're trusting _him_ with this?" Scott asks incredulously. "_He's_ more likely to kill Wisdom than Amanda was!"

"Amanda trusts Logan, Scott. She needs to see a face she doesn't find intimidating."

"She finds me intimidating?" Scott asks. The Professor just smiles.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

At the bottom of the stairs Logan is glaring. He's just waiting for that British asshole to give him an excuse to rip him a new one. The service had put that poor kid through enough. They had known she was a mutant, had even used her mutation, and hadn't told her the truth. Around the globe the US government was held as an example of how not to run mutant policy. Well guess what; as it turns out, the UK is just as bad. Thank God he was Canadian.

"You know, you don't have to go with him, kid," Logan snarls, daring Wisdom to mention the money again.

"Yeah, actually I kinda do," the kid replies. God, he can't even look at her. She looks like one of those people who have just survived a plane crash – all wide eyes and grim resolve. He glares at Wisdom instead, using his anger to mask his need to protect her.

"I'm serious, Jay, you shouldn't go with him," Logan rumbles. "You can't trust him, he's a stinking liar. We'll save the kid. It's what we do. You don't have to work with this piece of shit."

"Thanks, I love being called a piece of shit by an animal. Especially an animal who still owes me money… it gives me an excuse." Logan can't help but smile. Does this idiot think he might possibly _win?_

"Shut up, you arsehole," the kid says, cutting the tension just as he was about to leap. "Look, Logan, he may be an unreliable little shit but this is what _he_ does, too. And he's actually pretty fucking good at it. And he's done the background. And, God help me, I trust him."

The idiot leers at her over his shoulder and for a moment Logan is tempted to jump anyway. He hears the Professor's voice in his head; "I'll have Jean braid you hair," he says. It's a reminder of an old threat. "Make sure she realizes that she has a reason not to trust him."

"He knew you were a mutant and he didn't tell you. They used you because of your mutation and didn't even tell you what you were," Logan growls even as his claws retract. He can see it doesn't get through, even before she replies.

"What now?" he growls to empty air as their footsteps fade.

"Now it's Scott's turn," the Professor's voice states, calmly. "And then we decide how best to proceed."

"Great, we'll leave it to One-Eye. That's sure to work," Logan grumbles. The Professor makes no response.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Make sure she knows she still has a job," the Professor tells him, as it becomes clear that Logan won't be able to change her mind. "Make it absolutely clear that she'll be welcomed back as soon as she's ready. And most importantly of all; ensure that she knows she can trust us." Scott nods and scuds away down the stairs. It's a good job he's fit; he arrives mere moments before they do but he leans nonchalantly back against the wall as if he'd been there for hours. He knows that this projection of calm certainty is one of the things that lends him authority. Actually, maybe that was what the Professor meant by intimidating...

"You expecting to walk out on this job a second time?" he asks as if he was in total control of the situation.

"Not so much expecting as hoping," she replies, eyes wide and determined. It's quite clear, in that moment that he won't be able to change her mind. It makes him sad. He holds her gaze in a way that works wonders on the kids. It's amazing to him that it works at all, given his eyes are obscured by the red lenses, but it does. It makes them trust him, pulls them in and lets them tell him their secrets. He can see it working on her too. She talks, he smiles.

"I'm not here to argue with you," he says. "And don't worry about your job. Just do us all a favour and come back alive," they hear the Logan's footsteps arriving at the top of the steps. Scott smiles and raises a humorous eyebrow, it's his equivalent of winking to indicate a private joke. "We could really use a _**decent**_ qualified teacher around here. One who knows their limitations." For a fraction of a second a smile flickers on, lighting her face with gratitude and amusement. Behind it there is a new realisation of the security they are offering her. When she thanks him, she is already she on her way past. He lets her go. She'll be back.

"What the hell was that supposed to mean, bub?" Logan growls at him

"Just that I can't afford to lose her, Logan, what did you think I meant?" he replies, innocently.

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Authors Note: I'm really sorry about the confused postings earlier in the week. I posted chapter 19 as chapter 18, then had to take it off and post the REAL chapter 18 followed by chapter 19 in the correct place. Not very bright, I guess. Anyway, I hope people didn't get too confused and that this chapter doesn't seem entirely too repetitive of the last one. I thought it was important to have the alternative view point on what had happened to keep the narrative coherent. Hey, here's a thought, if you don't like it, you could let me know by REVIEWING! Yes, ok, I'll stop begging. Thanks, postgate


	21. Introducing George Fortescue and guests

It's amazing how quickly your mood can shift. Inside it was all serious and sombre. Now I'm out in the fresh air I feel like I'm on holiday. Maybe I have bipolar. I laugh out loud at the thought as I spot Sean Cassidy in the front seat. His hair is dark chocolate brown for a change. Interesting, kinda handsome, too if you like that kind of thing. I look down at myself and pull a face at the baggy sweats I'm wearing. Not exactly femme fatale get up.

"Get in the back," Pete directs from behind me. I turn and offer him my best salute. It's important to establish a chain of command in situations like this. I want to be right at the far end of the chain. The fun irresponsible end, that is, not the world weary and serious end. I can see him reading this thought on my face and he shakes his head. "Whatever happened to women's lib?" he asks himself, but I ignore him because I know full well that he hates responsibility just as much as I do. He's trying to wind me up so I demand some. Tough shit, Commander, I got here first.

"Just so we're clear," I say, climbing into the back and eyeing the pile of clothes on the seat next to me. "I'm not dyeing my hair."

"Fortunately that won't be necessary, Marion," Sean says in his posh voice. "We quite simply haven't the time." I flick open the passport. They used the same photo from the Janey Wilson passport. This one's called Marion Linklater.

"Could yeh not find a decent photo?" I ask accusingly, borrowing Sean's accent.

"Were you unable to locate an appropriate pair of shoes?" Sean replies, sustaining posh. I narrow my eyes. Pete Wisdom demonstrates that he does have at least one brain cell by not saying anything.

I change in the back seat. One of the advantages of having worked in the sex industry is that I have absolutely no hang-ups about people seeing me without my clothes on. First of all, everyone looks fine naked and secondly, if you're naked, people are generally too busy thinking about what you're going to taste like, to worry about what you look like.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

By the time we are at the airport we are all in character and all using our very best BBC voices. Sean is called James. I'm having to stop myself from saying it with a bond-girl-esque lisp. Sean-James is my phony husband. Pete, now George Fortescue, is a business colleague. They are on their way home from a conference. As the little woman, I don't have to bother my pretty little head with the details. Credit where it's due, Pete Wisdom can sure set up a back story.

By now, I'm wearing so much make-up that my face looks just like the passport. My hair has been coiffed within an inch of it's life and I nearly asphyxiated myself with hairspray to keep it there. Also, I used about ninety-seven hairgrips, which means if I lean my head on anything I'm liable to get poked in the cranium by an inch of metal. All of this is going to seriously limit the amount of sleep I can get on the flight. Still on the plus side, my heels could be classed as a deadly weapon so if anyone happens to annoy me I can skewer them. Oh, and we're travelling business class. Nothing but the best for George Fortescue, darling.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"James, darling, could you be a sweetie and pass the sugar?" I ask. Sean-James and I have played the posh game before. It irritates the hell out of people and they usually move away. Typically we can clear a space ten feet around in less than twenty minutes. It's worked a treat, so far, we got waved through passport control and are now sitting in splendid isolation in the business class lounge, drinking an American attempt at tea.

"Oh certainly, my love," 'James' replies. "I say this tea really isn't up to snuff, what?" It gives me great pleasure to report that we are even winding up George Fortescue. He's developing an eye-twitch.

"Oh, it's simply abysmal," I reply. "What say you, George?"

"Just slipping out for a breath of air," he says through gritted teeth.

"All right, old man," James says amiably. "We'll see you anon."

As Pete-George stalks off we exchange knowing smiles and lean in for a tête-à-tête. "Jaysus, Mandy, I'd forgotten how good you were at that," Sean whispers in my ear. I smile like he's just paid me the nicest compliment. He kisses my jawline before he adds, "He lasted longer than I thought he would though. What do ye want to know?" I shake my head and draw away, gazing into his eyes, still smiling.

"Less I know, the happier I am," I murmer back. "Just tell me my family's safe." I see his eyes and know he can't give me that reassurance. I pull back from him and let my eyes fall sadly on the tea. It's dreadfully disappointing tea, don'cha know. He reaches over for my hand allowing me to look him in the eyes.

"Who?" I breathe.

"Mick," he says. He stands and walks behind me, resting his hand on my neck. I force a smile and lean back against him. We are the very picture of a loving couple.

Damnit.


	22. Concerning the merits of trusting others

When we arrive in London we head straight towards Clare's place. Clare was the wife of a good friend of mine and Angie, the kidnapped girl, was their daughter. Eugene, Clare's husband, had worked as a security guard for the service. When I was confined to office work, I used to hang out down at security whenever I was bored. Naturally, that was a lot of the time.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, one night, for reasons best known to himself and the Brotherhood, Remy LeBeau blew up the building. Eugene was working nights. No more Eugene.

Clare cut her ties to the Service. It's not that I don't understand her motives. It's not even that I don't sympathise. But the fact of the matter is I think she was stupid. Once you've been in the Service, once you've been affiliated with the organisation, however peripherally, that's it. You're a target. End of story.

This problem is compounded by another, much larger, one. You see, while you might be a target, the Service won't be running to your aid in a time of crisis. The assumption is; you leave, you turned. If you stop being on our side, you must be on the other side. You have a problem? We don't care. We assume you are laying an elaborate trap.

Unfortunately they are right too often to change their policy.

Not that it matters what I think; I couldn't tell her that. I mean, although she and I still exchange Christmas cards, that's about it. She wasn't my friend and her husband had just died. She wouldn't have listened. And now it just too damn late.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"Get out," Pete says. "Go talk to the widow, see what she's got to say."

I give a mental shrug. Instructions like those leave you with scope, I guess. I ring the doorbell and feel like an idiot. We haven't been in touch for a long time. My turning up on Clare's doorstep after her daughter has disappeared is a bit like your physics teacher turning up to your grandma's funeral. Weird. Possibly even wrong.

I push those thoughts out of my head before she answers. I mean it's not like they are going to help, is it? They might even make it worse. If I expect to be welcome maybe I will be?

Perhaps I should have listened more attentively when Jean was trying to explain how to control this damn mutation. Guess it's too late now – the door's opening. I smile my best and most compassionate smile.

"Oh, Jay, thank God you came," she says. Her eyes are wide and red, like she's been on the edge of panic for longer than I can imagine. "I couldn't think who I could ask for help, you know what the Service are like. I didn't know what to do. Thank God you're here." Okay, _that _was not the reaction I was expecting.

"Of course I came," I tell her, blithely, as if it was. "I came as soon as I heard."

I follow her down the narrow hallway into the front room of her house. It's a long time since I was here but it's much the same. Same décor, the wallpaper matches the soft-furnishings. Same smell, spicy. Same lighting, one bulb out of the five isn't working. Eugene used to moan about that, how no sooner had he replaced one than another one went out. Remembering that makes me smile. There are a few more photos on the mantelpiece since I was last here. I walk over to look at them. It's something to keep me busy while I figure out what to say next.

There's one I haven't seen before of Eugene, laughing, looking younger than he was when I knew him. He was a handsome man. In another Angie and her mum are sitting together on a swing, wearing identical grins for the camera. That one was a Christmas photo two years back. They were visiting Eugene's family on Antigua. And one of Angie dressed up to the nines and looking like a movie star.

"Jesus," I say looking at it. "She looks just like you." Clare looks at me, her lower lip rolled in as if she's biting on it. There is so much pain in her eyes it almost hurts to see her. Guess that wasn't what I should have said next, then.

"Jay, you've got to help me," she says, and her voice cracks. "Please. Help me get my baby back. You're the only one I trust."

That one sentence makes my blood run cold. Call me a selfish cow if you like but I mean, how the fuck did _that_ happen? I'm the irresponsible one. Everyone knows they can't trust me. I'm the family fuck up. I don't do responsible. Never have. How could you _ever_ be in a situation where _I'm_ the only one you could trust? Almost anyone would be better than me.

But there's pain and hope and faith in her eyes. She absolutely means what she is saying.

Fuck.

"Don't worry," I say, doing my John Wayne impression, "I'll find her." Because, I think determinedly, I'm tough and strong and brave and competent. Completely reliable. You can count on me.

I wonder what time it is in Westchester. I really need to ring Jean and find out how the fuck this mutation actually works!

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

I think the tone on this one is a bit different so I would appreciate feedback - I'm a bit concerned it might have missed the mark. All comments gratefully recieved, thanks, postgate.


	23. The position of tea in British society

"I just made tea?" she says, the question is inherent in the words. If you know the British, you know that the ritual of making tea is one of the things we hang onto. Tea and toast are the green jello of the UK.

"Sure," I say. "Thanks," I sit on the sofa, elbows on knees, feet tipped forward in the ridiculous shoes, feeling drained. Then I get up and follow her to the kitchen. I like kitchens; they usually have biscuits in them. Nothing like biscuits for stopping you from feeling drained.

"What happened, Clare? Pete said the Human Hands took Angie."

"He's not with you, is he? Wisdom?" She asks. She sounds almost scared. I do a reassuring smile.

"He's not here," I say, which is true in a kind of basic sense. I mean he's not actually in the house with us and I'm pretty sure he didn't bug me before I came in. Usually he puts bugs in your bra, and unless the technology has gotten a hell of a lot better in the last couple of years, I would have noticed it when I was changing. The matching handbag, and therefore all my easily buggable paraphernalia, I left in the car and the shoes… Oh.

I hold up one finger so that she doesn't say anything more.

"Hang on, I'm just going to slip out of these damn heels," I say. I put them outside the back door. I'm not saying the shoes are definitely bugged, but it wouldn't surprise me. And just because I trust Pete, if Clare doesn't, I feel I have to respect that.

She watches me with a sad smile on her face and when I turn back she shakes her head. "You're still working with him, aren't you? Eugene told you and told you that you shouldn't but you just went right ahead and did it anyway. Eugene told me that by the third time he met you, you were a killer. You were barely more than seventeen."

"I was almost eighteen," I reply, feeling awkward. Eugene was a nice guy, and he used to bring me back here for dinner but I guess I'd never thought about what he used to say about me to Clare. It's damn embarrassing to be standing in the kitchen of someone who knew you when you were just a fucked-up kid. I mean, hey, I might be a fucked-up adult but at least I'm a bit better at hiding these things now. Jeez.

"Of course," she says, letting it go. "Do you want a biscuit. I've got bourbons or custard creams." I give her my nicest smile.

"That'd be great."

We both sit on the sofa. She puts the telly on, everyone knows that interferes with monitoring devices. It works less well than one might think, actually, but it's still worth the effort.

"So tell me," I say. She's calmer now we both have tea and biscuits occupying our hands and eyes.

"There was a story line on Eastenders," she starts. "You know how Eugene used to watch, because of his mum? And then we kept on watching, you know, because of him." One always has to explain away a soap addiction. No-one ever admits to watching them for pleasure. There has to be another excuse.

"I listen to the Archers," I tell her, by way of accepting it, giving her permission to carry on. She smiles, knowing her addiction looks reasonable next to mine.

"One of the girls, she manifested as a mutant, you know how they do." I nod again; story lines dealing with real life issues. "And then at the end, there was this number. You know? They do those numbers 'If you have been affected by any of the issues raised…' one of those numbers," she says, she looks me in the eyes as if seeking my approval.

"And I'd just been noticing things, you know, recently. About Angie. Little things, that made me think, you know, that she might be manifesting."

Like what? I want to bark but I bite back the words. Clare's dark eyes have filled with tears and now they are spilling down her cheeks. I take her tea away and put it on an end table with mine. I put my arms around her and wait, I feel curiously detached.

"It's okay," I whisper. "It'll be okay. We'll get her back. Shush now," all the things you say when people cry.

And in my head ring the words, another mother. Another damn mother.

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The next one will be back to normal (I hope). postgate


	24. I which a damn bastard stole a damn flat

When I get back to the car, it smells of grease and vinegar. "Mmm, food," I groan, climbing in the back seat.

"We'd have got you some, but we weren't sure when you were coming out, Mandy," Sean says coolly. Pete Wisdom doesn't bother with cool. He turns round in his seat and gives me both barrels.

"Where the hell did you leave the sodding shoes? We couldn't hear a bloody thing!" The decibel level is one notch below a bellow.

I stick a finger in one ear and waggle it about a bit to demonstrate deafness. "Ow," I say. "Unnecessary, I feel. I have news which I'm willing to share, but if you aren't going to be nice to me, maybe I'll just keep it to myself."

Wisdom snarls in my direction but Sean lets out a sigh. "Come on, now, Mandy, let's not piss about here. Children are going missing," he says. He sounds tired.

I'm not just being awkward, before you start judging me. And I'm certainly not pissing about. In fact, I'm figuring out what to say. I'm tired, too. This has been pretty non-stop - and not exactly stress free. And all I've had to eat in the last twenty-four hours has been airline polystyrene and a couple of bourbons. Being in a car that smells like chips is getting me down.

"You should have told me the shoes were bugged," I tell Pete, keeping my voice quiet and reasonable. I use this voice all the time on the kids when they are being ridiculous. "I probably would have left them outside anyway, but at least I wouldn't be sitting here right now feeling betrayed." Pete doesn't respond to that, just turns on the engine and pulls away. Irritation is beating off him in waves, but he's not going to say anything because I've got him bang to rights and he knows it. What is needed now is a little quiet time from us all.

Two minutes later he pulls over in front of a little chip shop and hands me a fiver. "Go get some food," he tells me and I know I am forgiven.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

I go in on the beaming smile that the prospect of food brings out in me. I don't bother with the menu. I know what I want. "Small cod and chips please," I beam at the man. He beams back and tells me it'll be a few minutes. We flirt back and forth as he cooks my fish fresh and asks whether I want it open or wrapped. I get it open, because I'm starved and he puts the salt and vinegar on the counter.

"Do you have any ketchup?" I ask.

"I've only got these little packets," he tells me, apologetically and gives me five of them. For free. In the past I would have thought of this as natural kindness, now I'm wondering if it's because of my mutation. It's sad when you find you can't believe in people's basic good nature any more.

Sean's asleep when I get back to the car and Pete has that haggard look he used to get when he'd spent too long on the knife-edge. "You okay?" he asks me when I get into the back.

I nod and offer him a chip. He takes some and we sit quietly eating them.

"I feel like I can't trust anyone any more," I say softly. He nods, accepting this but not commenting.

"I keep expecting people to hate me for what I am. I thought Clare would. I'm a killer, I'm a mutant, I committed matricide for Christ's sake… but she was just the same. Treated me just the same as when I was a kid. She didn't hate me or anything."

"She likes you, Jay. Sometimes people are going to like you. Sometimes they won't. Part of it might be down to your mutation, but _all_ of it is down to you. You'll figure that out eventually." He turns round and grabs some more of the chips. The man has hollow legs.

"What if I can't figure it out?" I ask him. "What if I never figure it out? What if I can't control it? I just keep thinking about all those people I could hurt. About the harm I could do to people. It's fucking terrifying. I don't know where to go with this… this shit in my head. It's fucking terrifying."

"You'll be okay," he tells me. "You always are." He starts the engine and we head off into the sodium lit darkness.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

I feel a turn and jerk back to consciousness. "Shit," I say and then look around. I hate falling asleep in cars. It's like you're just accepting death is coming and you are just going to let it.

"Hey, this is my road," I point out but I get no response as Pete carefully parallel parks in front of what used to be my building. "What the hell are we doing outside my building," I ask.

"Shut up and get out," Wisdom says. He sounds exhausted, so I forgive the testiness in his voice. It must be damn irritating when you're knackered and your passengers both fall asleep on you. "Oy, Screech. Get the hell up."

Sean wakes with a start and looks momentarily confused. I give him a bright-eyed smile like I've been awake for hours. That's always annoying when you've just woken-up and are feeling woozy.

"Morning," I say, brightly.

"Sure, Mandy, it's great to wake up to that smile," he tells me. "Anny second now you'll be bringing me my breakfast in bed." I laugh as he climbs out to join us on the pavement. Pete leads the way grumpily towards the block of flats with Sean and I following, happily arguing about who is the worse cook.

"God, are you two ever going to shut up?" Pete snaps, after three rounds of who set off the fire alarm. You know he's been dying to say it to us for the best part of eighteen hours. Now he has said it, it provokes another rush of laughter. Naturally this annoys him even more.

"Ah, see, yeh've gone and upset him, now, Mandy," Sean tells me in a stage whisper.

I give it distressed. "And I was trying so hard to be nice," I say. "I really don't know what I've done. Oh the shame. Perhaps I should make him a cake to say sorry?" Sean laughs.

"Hey, this is my flat. What the hell are we doing at my damn flat?" I know it was a sudden change, but Pete Wisdom is opening the door to MY damn flat. How would you feel if you suddenly discovered your ex-boss had a key to your damn flat? I was damned pissed off. Damn bastard.

"It's my flat now," Wisdom replies as he steps through the door.


	25. Which contains innocent debreifing

I wake up with my head resting on a familiar chest. I hadn't gone to sleep like that, but there it is. I dimly remember crawling into my own bed and finding it occupied. I had decided to sleep there regardless because, after all, it was my damn bed. Now, Wisdom's hand is on my back, and to my considerable relief I am still wearing all the clothes I started the night in. At least I'm pretty sure I'm relieved... but it's been a while.

"Morning," he says.

"Mmph," I reply and I hear his smile as he brushes hair off my face. God knows what it looks like; it was still wet when I crawled into bed.

"Look, Jay, you need to tell me about last night."

"Mmph," I reply, crumpling my forehead. "Why'd you steal my damn flat?"

"Because I knew where all the bugs were," he replies.

"Because you fitted them," I reply, pretending to be pissy. Actually, I knew where the bugs were, too. I just never cared that much – Ollie didn't call me at home and I didn't have any contact with anyone else that might have been considered a threat. Plus, actually, in my secret soul, I liked being bugged. Go figure.

"I only fitted about half of them," he tells me. "Did you know you had three different systems hooked up in here?"

"Mmph," I say, I still don't care. "So you loop them or what?" I ask, delaying. To loop them is to give the bug a feed of edited material. Repeated stuff from when the flat's empty or full of inconsequential noise. It's not perfect, but it tends to throw people for a while, and let's be honest, it's not like the monitoring is ever going to be high class. It could mostly be done by untrained monkeys. I know. I did it.

"You don't care," he says, accurately. "Spill."

I keep my eyes closed. This is how we used to debrief, and we used to tell the other girls we were debriefing, too. They thought it was hillarious. "Okay, Angie started manifesting," I tell him. "You know she was athletic, right? She was on all sorts of teams and stuff when she was a little kid, but lately it's just been the athletics. And she starts doin' well. And then she was doing really well… and then it got kinda suspicious so the kid eased down, but Clare was like… y'know, that's weird cos she's runnin' an' that, but this kids no' even ou' of breff. Weird, righ'" I pause, still with my eyes closed, imagining it.

"So the kid's manifesting," he states.

"Yeah, an' Clare's worried. An' then they're watching Easties an' this storyline comes on an' it's all _'Oh no, my sons a mutant and manifesting. What do I do?'_ an' up pops this number like _'If you have been effected by any of the issues'_ bladibla. So Clare rings, yeah, an' she's given all this abou' genetic samples an' reversin' and levels of mutation…"

"Christ, I thought that advice had gone the way of all things," he says. I can't help but agree. It's like the old chestnut about being gay by choice. I mean, puh-lease. Who ever thought that was likely?

"So they're out there, spinning this about under level three it can be reversible, an' you've got to get tested," I continue. I swear I feel him rolling his eyes. I laugh, although it's not really funny, then I sit up, because this requires some arm waving.

"Fucked innit, but it works, see, coz that's what Clare does. She finks she's doin' right by her little one and the next fing she knows her kid is lifted right out of the classroom." Imagine it. Scares the hell out of me.

"No," he says, his eyes are wide and he's watching the hand waving. I pull my hair over one shoulder and shake my head.

"Yep. Right out of the classroom, y'know. Right out of her school. You would think the teachers might have fuckin' said somefin' but no. Not a bloody word. Gone." Would I have said something? If the men came, with guns and pieces of paper? Would I stop them? Which is more worrying, the guns, or the pieces of paper?

"And when Clare's gone to the police, they've shown her paper work and told her there's nothing they can do. And the school, apparently, was no fucking help. Just said '_the transfer paperwork had been signed by the child's legal guardian'_ and Clare's all like _'First I heard that that ain't me!'_." That isn't what she really said. It's best not to think bout what she'd really said. Or sobbed.

"So yeah, it's fucked," I say brightly and climb out of the bed. "What's for breakfast? I'm fuckin' starving."


	26. Which introduces Mrs Jhaveri

I ring the doorbell of the fourth floor flat and put on my 'little girl lost' face, full of hope and expectation. When the door opens I smile my best 'favourite grandchild' smile. "Oh Amanda, it's lovely to see you," Mrs Jhaveri says smiling back at me. "Do come in for a cup of tea, it's been a long time you know."

"I know, Mrs Jhaveri, I'm sorry. I should have let you know," I reply, saccharine sweet. "I've been working in the States for a little while but I thought I'd pop up and visit you now I'm back." We both know this is a lie, but we also both know it's true. Truth is a complicated thing.

"That's very good of you," she tells me. "You are a good girl, come in, come in." I follow her into the tiny hallway. Her flat is laid out exactly like mine, except hers is full of flowery sofas and lace curtains and little tables.

"Now I couldn't help but notice that there has been a man in your flat," she tells me, almost on a whisper as we go into her sitting room. "Is he one of your brothers? He doesn't look like the nice young man you brought to visit me that time. He looks a little bit wild." Ollie stayed with her once. Don't ask.

"Oh yes," I tell her, smiling. "That's George, I used to work for him, I was his PA. He's an old friend."

I see her eyebrows raised. Mrs Jhaveri would dearly love to see me married off and used to be forever suggesting ways I could accomplish this. Some people might have found this irritating. I liked it. I never had any grandparents. "And he's staying in your house dear?" she asks. "Is that wise?"

I laughed. "Almost certainly not," I say and wink. She giggles. We drink tea and eat biscuits and do the things we always do together and then she offers me the thing I was really waiting for.

"Did you want to use the phone, dear?" she asks. I wrinkle my nose apologetically. I really don't _just_ use Mrs Jhaveri for her phone, but, well, that is the reason I'm here. She is one of several kind, older people I have cultivated for this purpose. Maybe it makes me a bad person. I can't tell any more.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"Jean?" I ask.

"Amanda," she replies warmly, "where are you calling from? I don't recognise the number."

"Ideally you shouldn't be able to see the number, either. This is meant to be a secure line," I remark dryly. She laughs.

"Technology moves forward, and right out in front of it is our very own Scott Summers."

I laugh, too. "Look, I wanted to ask you about my mutation. I need you to tell me everything you can about it: How it works; what it does; how I can control it; that sort of stuff." There is silence from the other end of the phone.

It carries on for a long moment.

"Jean?" I ask. The silence continues for three more beats. It kind of reminds me of when I talk to Danny sometimes. How do people manage to be silently disapproving on the phone? You would think you would need to be able to see a person for them to register this level of disapproval. "Hello. Jean. You still there?" I ask wondering what it is I've done.

"I'm still here," she says. All the warmth has magically disappeared from her voice. "I'm just surprised by your reason for calling. I mean, we told you everything we knew about your mutation before you left. Several times in fact. And by several times, what I mean is, _several_ people spent a _long time_ telling you...

"_several times…_

"_**each…**_

"_**everything**_ we knew about your mutation.

"So I suppose I'm slightly surprised to hear that you don't know anything about it." I suppose I can see where she's coming from on that one.

"But I wasn't listening," I tell her with a simulated air of confusion, as if I can't understand where she's coming from at all and she's being totally irrational. Sometimes if you act like people's irritation is totally irrational they think it is too. It works. Sometimes. Honest.

"I mean I made it very clear I wasn't listening. I never looked at you. I never responded. I wasn't listening." There is the silence again. Of course, it doesn't always work. Sometimes, it has even been known to make things worse. Oops.

"Jean?" I ask, nervously. I really hope I haven't terminally pissed her off.

"_I_ told you, _Scott_ told you, _Hank_ told you, _Alex_ told you, Kurt _and_ Logan told you, _Remy_ told you. Even the_ Professor_ told you. Are you _really_ telling me that you weren't listening?" Oh crap. If you could hear her tone of voice you would swear too.

"Um, I don't know what to tell you?" I say and I let my nerves through into my voice. Maybe if I go for slightly scared she'll take pity on me. It could work, right? "I really wasn't listening. I think I was in denial."

"We thought you couldn't help but be listening," she said, now she sounds more disapointed than angry. "There was no other sound in the room, for heaven's sake? How on earth did you manage not to be listening?"

"I'm not a really great auditory learner," I tell her, defensively. "And I was in denial and things, you know, but… Hey, the good news is I'm at acceptance now, which means I'm all ready eager and able to learn. Right. That's a good thing, right?" If she was Logan, she would have growled at me. Instead there is a long suffering sigh.

"Do you have a pen and paper to hand?" she asks me, coldly.

"Um, yes," I reply. The truth is no, but I'm all ready to listen this time, so it's all cool.

"Amanda, please. Do not tell me lies and think I can't tell," Jean says, she sounds like Munroe. "You don't know how your mutation works yet, obviously, so you are going to have a great deal of trouble controlling it. You have just told me you are not a good auditory learner. Listening to me is not good enough. Go and get a piece of paper and a pen and then come back to the phone."

"Jeez, Jean, you don't have to go into teacher mode," I say, but quietly and after I have put the phone down. I find a pen and some paper in Mrs Jhaveri living room. She is watching television and knitting something. I smile at her and she smiles back.

"Is everything alright, Amanda," she asks me. I smile and nod. I mean what else can I tell her?

"Your title is: My mutation and how to control it, by Amanda Jacobson," Jean says. "Write it down and read it back to me." I guess she heard the comment about teacher mode. I tell myself to suck it up and deal with it, that it'll be worth it in the long run. But I really hate following instructions from teachers. Especially when they are clearly pissed off with me… just because I wasn't listening I mean, seriously …

…maybe I should stop being such a pain in the arse.

Nah. That would be no fun at all.


	27. Which proves even psychics make mistakes

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"You should have told her what time it was," Scott said, looking up at Jean from the pile of marking that was sitting, predominantly, on his side of the bed.

Jean quirked an eyebrow at him. "She didn't wake you did she?" the red head asked innocently. She was endlessly amused by Scott's idiosyncratic sleeping habits. He had developed a peculiar tendency to get up at four a.m to do marking since becoming a teacher. They'd worked out the deal. She didn't mind him marking in bed half so much as she minded waking up and finding him absent from it. She got cold.

"She woke you," Scott pointed out as Jean leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

"But, as Amanda herself pointed out, as a good teacher I should be celebrating the fact that she was ready to learn, not telling her off for asking questions," Jean replied sleepily. Scott rolled his eyes and wondered how it was that Amanda still seemed able to affect his fiancée even when she was on the other side of the world.

"I thought you said her range could only be up to around two miles at absolute maximum," he said.

"God you're as bad as her," Jean murmured. "It's not possible I could _genuinely_ like her. It must be because she's controlling my mind."

Scott kissed the top of Jean's head, pausing a moment to inhale the scent of her hair, then went back to his marking. "I'm glad you made her read all that back to you. It added to the entertainment value of the conversation," he said. He was totally unashamed by his blatant eavesdropping. "Bet she was pissed."

Jean smirked. "Someone wise once told me that you should make the punishment fit the crime," she said. Scott laughed, recognising his own advice to all new teachers.

"We should make her responsible for minuting staff meetings in future," he said. Jean laughed, then her face became serious and her eyes opened.

"She didn't mention Remy and 'Ro," she said, thoughtfully. She sat up and looked in Scott's direction with a faraway look, not really seeing him. "They can't have made contact yet. Maybe I should ring Storm?"

Scott stopped and looked at his fiancée. Then he shrugged. "I probably wouldn't have made contact yet either. 'Ro'll need time to formulate a plan. They only arrived last night. They'll need to assess the situation first. It's not without complications, after all." Jean looked at him, sceptically.

"Do you think the Professor made the right decision?" she asked, finally. Scott didn't reply. They'd been over this, she knew what he thought. Even if they hadn't discussed it the previous evening, she would have known his opinions on the matter: They both knew Ororo hadn't wanted to go; they both knew why; they both knew that there had been any number of other people who would have been far happier with the assignment. But the Professor had chosen to send Remy and 'Ro. And he'd given a variety of cogent reasons for doing so. They had included leadership, team building and timetabling. None of the other staff had believed any of them. And pretty well everyone on the staff was unclear on what they thought about the matter. And none of it would make a blind bit of difference, so there was no earthly reason to keep thinking about it, in Scott's opinion. So he didn't reply, he went on with his marking.

Jean sighed expressively. "Well, I'm all awake now and I doubt I'll go back to sleep. I've got to be up in an hour anyway, since _someone_ decided we should take on an early morning excercise regime." It was Scott's turn to smirk, but he didn't stop what he was doing.

"I'm marking," he said, but he couldn't keep the smirk out of his voice.

"And I'm terribly worried about Amanda," Jean said, in a tone that suggested she really couldn't care less about Amanda. "Maybe I should ring 'Ro now and talk to her. See what she's thinking."

Scott turned to her, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "I don't think that's a good idea. Let Storm handle this one on her own, Jean. Don't interfere."

"But if I'm going to be lying awake worrying for an hour," Jean argued, her face a picture of innocence and her eyes alive with guilty pleasure, she loved that tone in his voice. It was devastatingly sexy. "Maybe the best thing to do would be to just call. I mean I don't see what harm it can do if I call. It would be different if it was you, but Storm and I are friends..."

"And you are lying in my bed," Scott snapped back, unable to stop himself. "You know full well Storm'll think you're ringing so that I can check up on her. I don't want that, Jean. I don't want her to feel that way about me. She doesn't need any more pressure than she's already got on this one. Especially from me. I know they call me the esteemed leader, but I don't want Storm to feel that that's how I see myself. I'm not Xavier's heir. I don't want people to think I am. Or even to think _I_ think I am." Scott stopped. Jean was staring at him, surprised, which just goes to show; even a telepath can misjudge these things from time to time. "Sorry," he added, sounding surprised himself. "I guess I just get tired of everyone expecting me to take responsibilty for everything all the time. Alex practically took my head off last night for letting Amanda go at all, not that I can see how we could have stopped her, even if the Proffessor had wanted that."

Jean placed a hand on his cheek and looked him right in the eyes. "I know, I'm sorry," she told him. "I love you, Scott Summers."

He nodded and kissed her palm. "Me too, Jean Gray. And I'm sorry too. I guess I just couldn't sleep," he said. "Kept thinking about that poor kid and that there's not one thing I can do to help from here. It's not that I don't trust 'Ro, but, you know..."

Jean nodded, "Me too. Everyone's feeling that way, Scott, but we've got to trust the Professor. He knows what he's doing."

"What if he doesn't?" Scott asked, softly, almost too softly to be heard. Jean looked at him and gave an almost imperceptable shrug.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I guess there's no point in thinking about it." Scott sighed. He picked up the pile of books and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor.

"Well, then you'd better damn well take my mind off it," he said, grumpily, this time, though it was fake. Jean laughed.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

Please review. I'm disheartened.


	28. The contemplations of a homeless person

When I return to the flat the boys are both out so I stash my notes on my mutation behind the fridge. No-ones business but mine, but I'm not taking them with me when I'm out on the town. That would be irrational. Luckily, Jean had chilled out a little during the course of our chat, although she had retained teacher mode enough to make me read back each paragraph of what we had discussed. Actually, if I'm honest I had found that kind of endearing. It shows she cares, or something equally touchy-feely. I'm not getting into my bleeding sub-conscious crap here, okay. It was just nice, especially given I feel like I can trust Jean - which is more than I can say for the majority of my acquaintance right about now.

The boys are busy, today, doing the background thing. Sean's pretending to be a lawyer and taking the school so he can schmooze the English teachers. Pete is pretending to be one of the boys, not a great stretch, and doing the local cop-shop. They have better contact with social services than most and Pete has contacts in the cops from when he was working. My mission has been to get mobile phones. This is easy enough, boring, and necessary. Basically it means I'm on the rob. Again.

I get on the bus and put down money, sighing a little over the expense. Pete confiscated my oyster card, and I can see his point – they are eminently traceable and if someone should stumble onto your identity they can pretty much find out where you are in minutes, but still. Travelling on cash is so much more expensive.

According to Jean my mutation is strongest when I'm subconsciously putting on a front. You know, those times when you are busy putting out what you want people to see of you? Parties, job interviews, anywhere where you are going to be hiding whatever inner turmoil you might have and are vamping. Which I guess means I'm pumping out the influence pretty damn strong all the time that I'm teaching. Scary concept. Those poor kids don't stand a chance. Heh heh heh.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

It's nearly three when I pause in the sunshine outside Southwark cathedral. A lady bends towards me as I turn my face into the sunshine.

"If you want a cup of tea, dear," she tells me, "our door is always open."

I mumble thanks and try not to look her in the eyes. Sometimes people think I am a homeless person. It can be disconcerting if you're not used to it. I need one more SIM card and then my work here is done, but what I really want is a drink. I can't stop thinking about things. Wondering who knew what. Wondering what my brother's mutations are. What they know about mine. What Wisdom knows, that sort of thing. It's slightly tearing me up inside and I feel it would all seem better if it were blurred by alcohol.

I pull Wisdom's hip-flask from my pocket and take a long pull. Hard to think why that nice lady thought I might be a homeless person, eh? I snort to myself in laughter, just to prove my point.

I'll be honest, I spent around half an hour maundering over my own thoughts before I pushed myself up to finish my job. I work my way down the south bank of the river Thames looking for pickings. The thing is, it's depressing. I really thought I was beyond all this now. I mean pick-pocketing. Seriously. Surely there comes a point when you become too mature to be a pick pocket…But at the same time, it needs doing and it's not like I have a raft of up and coming operatives beneath me to do the job for me. I never will. Professionally bottom of the tree and always will be, that's me. "Why I fucking got out," I tell myself sternly, but then can't suppress the laugh that follows. "Hah haha," I cackle, madly. I'm pushing through the book fair now, drawing attention in that very British 'I can't see you but I think your drunk' sort of way. I stumble artistically into a lady and pick her, apologising even as I stumble off. I'm careful to keep her in view, as I perch by the river and switch out the SIM. As soon as I've done that I'll return the phone – it'll have a pay as you go SIM from the same company and with luck she won't notice the switch 'til after this job is over.

I may be a picker, but I'm a darned responsible one.

I'm fumbling with the back of the phone, wondering why they are designed so damn fiddly when a hand descends on my shoulder and a heavy masculine voice states; "You're nicked."

"Nah mate," I reply, grinning. "I'm fucked." I grab his hand intending to twist away but this guy is good, and I'm drunk so a handcuff snaps over my wrist.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sorry. I know she's maundering and we want her to catch a break, but not yet, okay. It doesn't fit with the plot arc... Sorry. Please read, review and slam me if necessary.


	29. In which our heroine seems to be nicked

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"You're nicked."

"Nah mate," I reply, grinning. "I'm fucked." I grab his hand intending to twist away but this guy is good, and I'm drunk, so a handcuff snaps over my wrist. I try to wrench out of his grip but his foot is already in the back of my knee driving me to the ground using the rigidity of the handcuffs to twist my shackled wrist to the small of my back. He's a good bloke though, and stops short of shoving my face into the pavement. It's surprisingly easy to accidentally break someone's nose when you are putting them down.

He kneels on my back to bring both my hands down to complete cuffing them and then hauls me unceremoniously to my feet. I can't help but notice the failure to read me my rights, or indeed to tell me what he's arresting me for.

Maybe this guy isn't a copper at all.

Maybe Pete Wisdom has hired me a strip-a-gram.

I giggle.

Did I mention I'd been drinking?

The strip-a-gram cop seems to take the giggle as a personal insult and almost pulls me off my feet as he starts the forced march away. I can't help it. I'm amused, but I do my best to give of passive non-threatening. You never know, it might make him relax his guard and I'll be able to make a break for it.

The thought flashes through my mind that Pete'll either fucking kill me or laugh himself sick over this one, depending on the outcome. "Sobering," I say out loud and giggle again.

The grip on my arm gets stronger, like this guy is trying to restrain himself from shaking me until my teeth rattle. Maybe I should take that back about him being a good bloke. I mean, for real, I'm in handcuffs, you would think the guy would let up a little and let a girl get away, right? That's the way this game works.

In order to seem as drunk and harmless as humanly possible I close my eyes. I know this area so well, worked it so often in my past that there is nowhere he can take me that I won't be able to run from. If you work an area, you've got to know every back street better than a local does. Every good hustler knows that. You've got to be able to see your way clear no matter what, or you're just asking to get taken. The problem with that is, once you _are_ taken the whole thing becomes a little more serious. Of course, that's not been a great problem for me. The last time I got taken it was by Mystique and she cheated.

"Drugging a person is cheating," I mumble to myself and almost trip on the uneven paving. The strip-a-gram puts out an arm to steady me.

In point of fact, I've never been actually, technically, taken before. The only person who ever actually _apprehended_ me before was…

…hang on a minute…

My eyes snap open and my head comes up in sudden, stunned realisation.

"Jesus Jay," my brother says. "What the hell are you wearing?"

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo


	30. Wherein we meet a strong IC1 male

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

We're round the back of the National Theatre by now, in front of Pizza Express to be precise, and the booze in my stomach is writhing and turning to acid. A number of thoughts are flashing incoherently through my mind.

I just got apprehended by my brother.

_I've got to run_.

I didn't know it was him.

_I'm going to die._

I didn't see him, hear him or feel him until right this second.

_And now I'm going to die_.

But even as I think this, I feel his fingers loosening on my arm. I twist out of his grip and use the momentum from my spin to plant a hard kick. I aim as high on his chest as I can reach whilst maintaining my balance. Harder than it sounds in handcuffs – thank God Pete made me practice, all those years ago.

I hear the "Ooof!" of the pseudo-Mick going down as I am doing my best to flee. This is also harder than it sounds. My run is more of a scurry than a sprint. Damn cuffs.

The kick was bad. He shouldn't have gone down, but I'm glad he did. As my feet skitter across the cobbles my mind flashes with panicked fear and confusion. I hear a sound. It could be gunshot. It could be a car backfiring. In all honesty I'm too discombobulated to care.

Luckily for me, I know exactly where I'm going. This gives me time to focus on my panic, without wasting time getting lost or running into dead ends. I head straight for Waterloo Station.

Shit shit shit.

Who the hell was that guy? It can't have been Mick because while my brother is an arsehole of the first water, and while I fully believe that he might slam me in handcuffs for some stupid make-believe reason like pick-pocketing, to my certain knowledge, Mick has never managed to hide himself from me before.

There is a flash and rumble behind me. Trains? Lightening? Who the hell knows.

I didn't recognise his voice, for Christ's sake.

That's just implausible.

So the obvious conclusion is; it isn't my brother.

So who the hell is it, really?

Adding onto this already complicated situation is the fact that this pseudo-brother person had delivered an old code word for run. He said, and I quote, "Jesus Jay. What the hell are you wearing?" When I worked for Pete any comment related to clothes was a coded warning. 'What the hell are you wearing?' was more specific. It meant; you are in immediate danger and need to run like hell.

Hence the panic-stricken kicking and the running which have currently ensued.

Did Mick ever know that? I know I didn't tell him.

Please please please let me get away. Oh please, God, I know you don't exist but let me get away. Please please please.

Which, of course, is right when I get grabbed. I would have fallen but whoever it is that has got me doesn't let me fall and has already spun me on the spot so my face is pushing into a wall. I didn't get a chance to register who it was.

Strong.

Masculine.

IC1.

"Stay still, fille, I got dis," a familiar voice mutters.

The cuffs click and come free.

"Thankyoubabyjesus," I mutter and hare off again, a hell of a lot faster than before. Behind us there are a series of flashes and the low rumbling of an explosion. I hope to God LeBeau is keeping up because I'm slowing down for no man. Couldn't, even if I wanted to.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

AN: IC1 is the British police officers record their perception of people ethnicity. IC1 means Identity Code 1, and it means the person has been perceived as being white.

Sorry this took so long. I had writers block.


	31. Wherein we consider the evils of alcohol

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

I follow a running man in a suit towards the barriers at Waterloo, pulling my travel card from my back pocket as I go. I wave it at the lady working the barriers, who grins at me as I flash past her. The beeping, which tells you that the train doors are about to close, has already started when I hit the platform. I head to the first set of doors, right at the back of the train. They start to close on me and I push my shoulder against them hard, holding them open for LeBeau. The guard whistles his annoyance at us from the platform.

"Jesus, fille," Remy pants, "dat was close."

"That was the plan," I mutter, more to myself than him. I'm feeling a little grumpy and preoccupied, looking back through the windows and waiting for an announcement to tell me where we are headed. If you get on a train that is just on the brink of leaving you can be pretty damn certain that no-one got on after you, even if they were following. I don't know that anyone was following us, but my motto in this sort of situation is; better safe than dead.

I stroll up the train and find a seat in an empty set of four. It's facing backwards, which is safer should we crash. I'm not scared of trains, but there's no reason to be stupid about this sort of thing, right? Once I am seated I start trying to formulate a plan. The planning is somewhat impeded by the fact that I am also trying to not throw up. Never drink right before you flee for your life, it's not good for the digestion.

If pseudo-Mick meant that comment to be a code word, I wonder if that means he knew the meeting point too?

"This is. The south-west trains, service. To Windsor and Eton," the mechanical lady announces in her usual jerky style. "Calling at: Vauxhall… Clapham Junction… Putney… Richmond… Twickenham…" she goes on but I've stopped listening. I've entered into smug mode. Damn I'm good.

"Do you have a plan?" Remy asks, sitting down opposite me and leaning across the table towards me.

"Yep," I reply looking past him at the scrolling red letters telling us that: "We will shortly be arriving at Vauxhall."

"And are you goin' to share dis plan wit Remy a' some point?" he asks in the voice one generally reserves for use on the obtuse. I curl my lip and look him straight in the eyes.

"Guess it depends on wha' Remy's go' to say fo' 'imslef," I say, mimicking his accent and narrowing my eyes. "What the hell is going on?" I demand. "Who the fuck was that back there?"

Remy looks at me, forehead rumpled. "Di' you hit yo' head on de floo', fille," he asks me. "Dat was yo' brother. You didn' recognise 'im?"

"No way was that my brother," I tell him angrily. "It was some shape-shifting freak. He wasn't my brother when he nabbed me, then he was my brother five minutes later when he told me to run. No way was that my brother. Uh-uh. I'm not _that_ fucking _stupid_." Okay, so maybe my voice was getting a little high pitched, but that's probably just the booze, right. I take a deep breath and blow it out. I would hate anyone to think I was getting hysterical just because I'm not entirely sober.

I rub my forehead as I glare at LeBeau. Now on top of everything I'm getting a headache. It's probably stress.

Remy is looking at me like he's still worried I've suffered a concussion. "You're brother's a mutant, fille. Remy though' you knew dat."

I lean back in my seat and roll my eyes at him. "Well, yeah, duh, obviously…" Waitaminute. Oh. Oh crap. What?

I realise now that I can't finish that sentence. I have absolutely no idea what Mick's mutation might be. I don't know what Mart's is either. I sort of vaguely know they are mutants but I never asked them about it because I sort of assumed they didn't know about them, like I hadn't known about mine. And then I sort of got a little caught up in my own problems and totally forgot about my brothers. I've been so selfish. I shut my eyes as I feel tears well in them.

Jeez.

This is ridiculous.

I'm never going to drink again.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo


	32. Containing a revelation and an apology

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"Fille, you asleep?" Remy asks. "If you go' concussion i's no' wise to go 'sleep." I don't open my eyes. I don't smile. We are not amused.

"Is dere a plan, fille," he asks. He sounds exasperated. Good. He might be beginning to understand how I'm feeling. Hah.

oOo

"Fille," he says again. He snaps his fingers in front of my face. "C'mon, fille, talk to Remy. Wha's de plan?"

I open one eye enough to glare at him. "Mine," I reply. And in case that is a little unclear I add, "The plan is mine. All mine. You can't have it. I'm not sharing. I don't like you."

"Jesus, fille," he says. He sounds annoyed now. Good. Hah. That'll teach him. Wanker. I shut my eyes and smile in triumph. Okay, so I'm being a little childish, what else is new? We've just passed Clapham Junction. Next it's Putney, and after that I'm getting off. I'll leave this bugger on the train if he doesn't redeem himself by then. Still, I suppose I should give him a chance.

"Okay," I say, keeping my eyes closed. "What is going on? What are you doing here? Why am I running for my life? What is my brother's mutation? Who am I really working for and where the _**bloody hell **_is Angie?" I pause for a second, reviewing my questions. I think I missed one. I screw my forehead up, thinking.

"Oh, and was that lightening I saw back there? Because if it was, I swear to God it better have been a freak storm and not that _freak _Storm or I am going to out right lose it."

"Folle, you lost it a long time ago," Remy replies bitterly. I wave a pair of fingers calmly in his direction and patiently wait for some answers.

oOo

"Is dere any poin' Remy explainin' dis to you when yo' drunk?" he asks. I don't dignify that one with a response. We arrive at Putney. The doors beep, then open. I open my eyes and regard him coldly.

"I'm getting off at the next stop," I tell him. "I have a plan. It's a good one. What have you got?" Actually my plan is slightly hair-brained, but there's no sense in telling him that. The doors beep again and then close. I hold his eyes, steadily, in my own.

"Okay, fine," he says and I smile slightly. I may take up professional poker. I mean, if I can out-bluff LeBeau, I must have a gift for this shit.

"Where you wan' Remy to star'?" he asks "Because i's complicated, an' yo' drunk and Remy don' know what you plannin' here so he don' know how much time he go'." I sigh, because he has a point – I'm getting off this train in approximately six minutes. That doesn't give him a great deal of time.

"Tell me about Mick," I decide. "You've got about five minutes."

"Remy can' do tha' in five minutes," he replies, innocently. "Tha's goin' to take at leas' fourteen minu'es."

I narrow my eyes at him. Now he's trying to annoy me. Irritatingly, I find it more amusing than annoying. I glare my best glare, the one that says; I'm going to pound you if you continue to mess with me. If I don't glare I'm scared I'm going to start giggling. The arms race is a terrible thing. "You have four minutes remaining." I tell him. "Tell me about his sodding mutation within that time." The bastard wriggles his eyebrows at me and I give up. A woman's not made of stone. I giggle.

"Okay, now we go' tha' out of the way Remy owes you an apology. 'E didn' know you didn' know you' brothers were mutants. He would 'ave told you if he'd realised."

I'm staring at him. I don't know what to say.

"Remy's really sorry, fille. 'E didn' realise you didn' know." He pauses for a second, he looks how I feel, sad, guilty, confused.

"We have to get off the train," I tell him and lead the way.

"Hank says Mick's got a perception filter. I's like you can' see 'im, like camouflage," Remy says, following me off the train. "We used to call 'im Captain Camo."

I don't know what he said next. Not the words, just the pictures that filled my mind while he was talking. On the sixth form football team, apparently, they had all known about it. Mick used to pop up out of nowhere. It wasn't that you didn't see him, it was just that you didn't see _him_ if you see what I mean. You would just see the ref or someone from your own team or something, and next thing, Mick had the ball and was half way up the pitch with it. He and Martin both knew they were mutants. Other people entirely knew they were mutants. I didn't. Some family, eh?

"So where we goin' fille?" he asks, after he's given me time to assimilate the new information. "Wha's the plan."

"We're going to Kew," I tell him, and I lengthen my stride.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo


	33. Which is, basically, a headache

I have this skill. It isn't in anyway connected to my mutation, or at least I don't think it is. I can't be sure of that without asking my beautiful doctor. Anyway, wherever it comes from, I have this amazing sense of direction. Even in the most dire of circumstances I can find my way around. It's handy. It means walking from Richmond station to Kew Gardens is something I can do, more or less with my eyes closed. Which is handy, since whilst I am walking from Richmond station to Kew Gardens I am also trying to make sense of what Remy LeBeau is saying about my brother Mick. He was right. It defiantly took longer than six minutes...

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

Years ago, Remy lived in Bristol. Something had happened in the Theives Guild to which he was heir and Remy had to be stashed. He got sent away. To Bristol. Apparently it was some connection of his father's that was more or less family and doesn't really matter right now.

Anyway, while he was there, he lived with this family. They had a little kid, Darren. This little kid, it should be no surprise to anyone to discover, turns out to have been a mutant. Darren came into his powers and developed a strong penchant for graffiti. I don't know in what order that part happened, I suspect the graffiti came first but whatever.

This kid gets to places he shouldn't be able to get to and, to show that he did, he leaves a paint trail. Thus the kid starts attracting attention of various kinds, because the kid really is good at what he does - don't ask me what he does. I missed that part. My point is, while the kid is good, like the majority of teenagers he's thick as pig shit. I mean, who leaves a goddamn paint trail, right? But then, like most adults, been there, done that. We were all thick as pig shit at some point in our lives.

Anyway, again no surprise, some shit goes down and the kid needs to get stashed. Presto change-o this time Darren is in New Orleans, except, lucky for him, here comes cousin Remy, formerly of the brotherhood, now living clean at the Xavier Academy for Gifted Students.

However, unfortunately for everyone concerned, and this is where the story really starts, this kid has been attracting agency attention and he's being tracked. My brother and Pete Wisdom and Interpol's very own Sean Cassidy are sent to good old New Orleans to keep track of this kid.

My brother, Pete Wisdom and Interpol's very own Sean Cassidy,

_plus_

ex-brotherhood member Remy LeBeau,

_equals _

Disaster.

Ergo disaster ensues. And the kid goes missing.

Now, it turns out the kid didn't just disappear. Pete snagged him and, when it went pear shaped with LeBeau, he returned the kid to the UK. And when the kid was in custody in the UK, _that's_ when he disappeared.

So the next thing that happens is that Sean and Pete take the fall for losing LeBeau. They resign, leaving my brother on the inside trying to find out what the hell is going on with the kid.

And, arguably, _this _is where the story really starts.

Because Darren isn't the only one missing. In fact he's one of _many _missing mutant kids. Angie is another. And the service aren't taking on blind bit of notice of any of them. So the question becomes; just what the hell is Mick inside of?

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"Holy crap," I say, once I've managed to understand what Remy is telling me. My head is spinning with all the new images it is trying to contain. It's all a bit much. "Jesus Christ," I say. I try to get my head around all this new information and I can't. It's to big, and amorphous. I keep losing my grip on the salient details. "I knew I didn't want to know what the hell was going on." I say to myself. "Jesus." I look at LeBeau. "We're going over the wall here."

"You okay, fille," Remy asks as he gives me a leg up. He sounds concerned. I choose to ignore that.

"It's spiky on top," I tell him, as if I think that is what he is talking about. "Hang on and I'll give you a hand."

The advantage of working with a professional thief is that they are good at breaking into things and we both get in nice and easy without being seen.

"So wha's the plan, fille. Wha' we doin' 'ere?" he asks.

"Tell ya la'er," I reply. "You ain't done. You ain't tole me what you's doin' 'ere and you ain't tole me why I'm runnin' for mah life. _And_ you ain't tole me if that was Storm back there. I ain't telling you _ma_ plan until I'm sa'isfied I know everythin' you do."

I didn't add so there. I just stalked off to find myself a sensible place to hide with a good view.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: There is something wrong with my computer which means I can't edit this online. I'm hoping that it is ok and that everyone else is able to read it and that it makes sense... If it doesn't, could you let me know please? Thank you, postgate.


	34. The revelation of a harebrained scheme

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

We are sitting in a tree that provides a good view of the grass area in front of us and effectively conceals us from view. It is, in my considered opinion, a near perfect tree. The only fly in the ointment is the fact that Remy LeBeau is busy explaining to me exactly what is going on. This means, at some point in the relatively near future, I'm going to have to explain to him why he is sitting in a tree. And then it's quite possible I'm going to die.

"So Mick rang Remy an' say da fille ha' been spot'ed down on de sout' bank and Mick was goin' to 'ave to go down dere an' pick 'er up. And he didn' wan' you in custody parce'que who knows wha' happens to da fille den. So Remy goes down dere to set up a rescue fo' da fille." As he tells me this he keeps his voice soft enough that it won't carry to the ground. It's unbelievably sexy, which isn't helping me at all, since I'm about to reveal an utterly harebrained scheme and look like a complete idiot.

"My name is Amanda," I mutter, pretending to be pissed off with him.

He ignores that and continues, looking down at his hands as he does so. "So Remy se' up un petit surprise. Dat's all. It wasn' 'Ro back dere, jus' Remy's surprise goin' off. An' dat gave Mick enough time to let da fille go. An' now we're 'ere. So, fille; why are we 'ere?" At this last, he looks up towards me. I feel a lump of nervousness rising in my throat.

"Amanda," I reply more forcefully. I mean, really, what right does he have. I don't call him garcon, do I? I could probably work up a good head of rage around this one given the incentive.

"Amanda," he replies, looking at me through his fringe. Shit. How dare he call me Amanda? How am I supposed to get pissed off with him now? The man's sex on legs. What a bastard.

Oh wait, I've got it!

"My God you're a condescending son of a bitch aren't you," I hiss at him. Damn I'm good, I can manufacture rage with hardly any provocation at all.

"Wha's de ma'ter now?" Remy asks throwing up his hands all injured innocence. Hah. I'll give him injured innocence.

"Like I needed _your_ help. Like I'm some _helpless __**damsel **_in distress vat couldn't have gotten away perfec'ly well on ma own. Who d'you think you are, Danger Mouse? Rescue _da fille_. Like you could even rescue your own arse. Ah'm the one doin' the rescuin' 'ere. Ah'm ve one wiva plan, 'ave you go' tha'?" Shit. I got carried away and mentioned the plan.

"So wha' _is_ de plan, fille? Dat's wha' Remy wan's to kno. 'Es told you everyting you asked. Now it's _your_ turn." His voice is holding a trace of perfectly reasonable irritation now. Unlucky for me the irritation doesn't make his voice any less attractive. Fortunately, I know for a fact that my hiss is about as attractive as that of a spitting cobra.

"Hah, wel' you probly won't wanna hear abou' it, since you're all in your macho _rescue _mode over there," I spit at him. He is macho, and sexist, and that does annoy me, but he isn't being any of those things at this present moment. I mean, seriously, when you want people to be out of order they go all _reasonable_ on you. I've got nothing to work with here.

"Come on, fille. Amanda. Please. Remy's sittin' in a tree," he says. I roll my eyes. Fine. I suppose I can't avoid it any longer.

"Okay, look," I begin in a calmer tone, "when I worked for Pete his signal for run was 'What the hell are you wearing,' right?" I pause and look at him. There is a sudden lump in my throat and I have to swallow a couple of times before I can continue. This is _so_ not going to be pretty. "But there's no point having a signal for run if you don't know where to run to, see?" I murmur.

"Okay," he says. I can see cogs turning. He's thinking this is actually pretty clever, that Mick and I have a pre-arranged meeting point and maybe things really are going according to a plan.

"Right. So Pete and I were working in Sheffield, right?" How long can I drag this out?

"Okay," he repeats.

"And Sheffield's got these Botanical Gardens, see?" I can see the cogs still spinning in his head, but the optimistic look has vanished.

"Hang on a minu' fille," he says, holding up one finger.

"And that used to be our meeting point in case of emergency, yeah?" I whisper. I think I might be sick.

"Fille, are you tellin' Remy," his voice is rising.

"Shhh, you can't shout," I hiss desperately at him. "Look, it seemed logical at the time, and the train stopped at Richmond, and I knew that was quite close to Kew Gardens. And these are like, totally botanical, right, so I brought you here. And _anyway _I didn' 'ear _you _comin' up wiv anyfin' be''er, didja, so you can jus' _shu' up_, okay!"

After which, quite predictably, we sit in silence for a while.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

Still can't edit online. Grrr. Stupid computer. PLEASE review (and thanks if you did, you know I appreciate it!)


	35. Which contains word magic

Even though I know the plan is a stupid one, and getting stupider with each passing moment, I don't want to abandon it. For this reason I am sitting here and looking stubborn and annoyed. So far it's working. LeBeau hasn't said anything too me, yet.

Actually, he's sitting with his back to the trunk of the tree, one leg dangling down from the branch and the other crooked at the knee with his foot resting on the branch in front of him. He looks supremely relaxed, catlike. It's fucking irritating and it's helping me to maintain stubborn and annoyed.

Personally, my arms are folded in front of me, my right hand is folded under my coat into my left armpit, protecting my extra sensitive finger ends. My feet both rest on the branch in front of me, my knees are bent high enough that they provide warmth. From the outside this would look like a typically defensive posture. It isn't though, honest, at least part of it is caused by the fact that the gathering darkness is getting increasingly cold. It's not like it was a warm day to start with.

As time passes the colour is bleached from the world and the view from the tree becomes increasingly foreshortened. Remy doesn't move. I wonder if he is in some sort of a trance. Either that or meditating. I _do_ move. Trees are not comfortable to sit in for more than about ten minutes and I can tell from the muscles in my back and my bum that I have been here for over an hour. Of course, we could leave entirely, but something in my hind brain still doesn't want to. I've always been ruled by my hind brain - probably because my fore brain is fucking useless. Of course my hind brain can't be any great shakes either since I am currently sitting in a tree... This thought is interrupted by a prickle down my wrist that tells me my arm has been still for too long and it makes me sigh. He glances towards me and offers a small, sympathetic smile.

He still doesn't speak.

"Fine," I say. "Okay, look, I know it was dumb. I'm sorry. There are obviously more sensible things we could have done. There are more sensible things we should be doing right now. Okay? I know, alright? So just shut up, okay?"

"Don' stress, fille," he tells me, still keeping his voice low. I didn't bother. I mean I didn't shout or anything but the Gardens have been closed for hours and I can't really see the point of whispering any more. I thinks he just trying to sound sexy. "Remy tinks we should stay 'ere. We can move at eleven if not'ing 'appens befo' den."

"Huh?" I say. To say I was surprised would be understating things.

"Remy's go' a feelin'," he tells me, complacently. "'E always listens to 'is feelin's. Remy tinks we stay. We give it 'til eleven, eleven-thir'y."

Well I suppose that part, at least, makes sense. It will be no surprise to anyone to see two idiots climbing walls at that time in the evening. That's when most of the pubs are shutting. People are expected to be idiots.

"Sure," I reply. "We can get a room and make some calls." I peer down at my watch. Four more hours. Fucking brilliant idea, Jay. Jeez.

We go back to the silence. He goes back to the complete stillness. I unfold my arms and swing them gently, encouraging the blood to flow and trying to wake the nerves without whimpering audibly. At least he can't see me clearly so I can grimace all I want. Small mercies.

Once I know the nerves are going to wake up, and the tingling is subsiding I look over towards him again. "You got a cigarette?" I ask.

He looks at me as if surprised. "Dat's goin' to draw attention," he tells me. I shrug and he tosses me his packet.

"Ta," I say shaking one out, lighting it, tossing it back. I smoke fast, not really inhaling. I didn't really want a cigarette.

"Wha' you doin, fille?" he asks, watching me.

"Word magic," I tell him. "First time Mick caught Martin and I smoking, we were sitting in a tree." He laughs and shakes his head. I shrug. "You've let me do stupider things already today," I tell him.

"You just gonna try an' put dis whole ting on Remy, aren' you, fille?" he asks, but he's grinning.

"I don't see anyone else around here," I reply. He shakes his head again, still grinning. Then, for the first time in over an hour he moves.

He swings himself up onto his feet on the top of his branch and leans up and across towards mine. He steps easily and gracefully onto my branch and then crouches in front of me.

"You wanna see some word magic?" Remy asks me.

What can I tell you? I'm the curious type. "Okay," I reply. He leans forward and lifts my chin.

"Okay," he says. Then he kisses me. Right there on the mouth. Right there in the tree. Who would have thunk it. I'm sitting in a tree being kissed by Remy LeBeau. I'll probably get a cold sore.

From below I hear a soft cough.

"Put her down, LeBeau, you don't know where she's been," my brother says.

"Wow," I say when he does.

"Nice job," I tell him, and in case the meaning wasn't clear I add; "It worked."

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

Okay, sorry for the delay, it was caused by a general lack of internet access. This problem is about to gt a lot worse as I am about to move to Africa for two years for work... I don't know how bad the internet problem is going to be , but given my luck in the UK is pretty appalling I'm not expecting miracles. So I'm sorry if updates become increasingly rare - I _will _try (and obviously will be encouraged by reveiws... What? I'm only human). Thanks for reading. I hope you have enjoyed the story so far... postgate


	36. A brief reprise of the story so far

Hi readers (God I hope there are a few of you left),

This is not a new chapter, merely a reprise of the story so far. It is particularly aimed at those of you who have been following the story since the beginning. I apologise for the LONG hiatus. Hopefully things are about to change. There SHOULD be a new chapter soon. Anyway, on with the precis:

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

Amanda Jacobson returned to the X-mansion knowing she was a mutant but not really knowing what her mutation was. This situation was changed by a bunch of kids shouting murderer at her…

As it turns out (following testing) her mutation is similar to her mothers, but without the conscious control that her mother had. That means she can control how people think of her and react to her by manipulating their mental responses – but like I say she isn't able to control it.

Apparently it would be technically possible to remove the mutation by inserting mental blocks, but the Professor would prefer she learned to control it herself. By this point in the story she knows what her mutation is, has sort of started to accept it. We don't yet know whether she will learn to control it and keep it or whether she will get rid of it.

At the same time as this, the real story is about the fact that mutant children are being taken away from their families. It is not clearn by whom, how or why this is happening. Amanda was pulled into looking for them by Pete Wisdom and Sean Cassidy (both of whom she had known before joining the X-Mansion) and by the fact that one of her firend's children has been taken.

The Professor has sent Remy LeBeau and Ororo Munroe to provide backup to whatever it is the Brits (and Irish) are doing about this problem. One of the taken kids is known to Remy, making him a logical choice for the mission.

At this point Remy has made his presence known to Amanda, but has denied the presence of Ororo. Amanda's brother Mick has shown himself to be somehow involved in the situation by seeming to arrest her but allowing her to escape. It is not yet clear how else he is involved but Sean Cassidy has mentioned that he is in danger.

Oh, and on the mutation front; Amanda has found out what his mutation is (but not what Martin's was. I wonder if there will ever be an opportunity to tell you about that. It's all imagined but I can't see how it would fit into the story…). She also found out that both brother's knew what their mutations were when they were teenagers, but didn't mention it to her. I suspect she is annoyed by that. It would fit with her personality.

Anyway, currently: Remy and Amanda are in a tree in Kew Gardens waiting to see what happens next. Mick has just appeared on the scene, possibly, but not necessarily conjured to the scene by the fact that his arch-rival, Remy LeBeau has just snogged his baby sister…

And quite frankly anything could happen next.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

COMING SOON TO AN INTERNET CONNECTION NEAR YOU: Chapter 36: Concerning a self-centred, narcissistic s.o.b.

(Please review and let me know if anyone is still reading. Thanks postgate)


	37. Concerning selfcentered narcissitic sob

There was a squabble going on near the outer walls of Kew Gardens.

"It's not _my_ fault I can't scale the bloody wall," said a smallish blonde girl. "I'm not as tall as you. I can't reach."

"Yeah, which is exactly why they shouldn't be sending short arse kids like you on sodding jobs," returned a tall, skinny, skaterish looking boy.

"Shut up the both of you," snapped another girl, this one altogether taller and better filled out. "Justin, give Meg a leg up. Meg, get over the bloody wall this time and try not to be seen. According to my monitor our target is a couple of hundred metres straight in front of you. If they spot us we're screwed. So keep it down."

"Jesus Charlie," Justin said once Meg was up and over the wall – with minimal grunting effort. "How the hell did she get given a live job? She's hopeless."

Charlotte Western smiled enigmatically and shrugged. This was her third live job, and she was breaking in the kids. It was great to finally be in charge. "I don't ask questions," she said, quoting Mr Blythe, "The less I know, the less danger there is for everyone else."

Justin snickered, "I tried that one on Ms Forthright last week," he said. "She said it didn't apply to history." Charlotte rolled her eyes, then took two steps back and readied herself to scale the wall. _Please don't let me fuck it up in front of Justin,_ she prayed as she stepped, planted her foot and scrabbled up. She got it, first attempt, dropping almost silently to the ground next to Megan. Moments later Justin joined them.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

Remy releases me when we hear my brother's voice. "Wow," I say when he does.

"Nice job," I tell him, and in case the meaning wasn't clear I add; "It worked." I see his teeth when he smiles; the rest of him remains lost in the shadows. Probably the self-centred, narcissistic, son of a bitch thinks there was more to the 'Wow' than I'm saying.

Probably there was.

You can call me names if you want to, but getting kissed has always done wonders for my self-esteem. Even if I'm getting word-magic kissed by a self-centred, narcissistic, son of a bitch like LeBeau. Getting kissed gives this girl a boost.

Consequently when I swing down from the tree I am smiling and I hardly feel nervous at all. This is unusual for any rational human being in the presence of my brother Mick.

It doesn't last long though as my brother Mick, apparently aka 'Captain Camo' grabs me to him and pulls me back and around the trunk. I guess being kissed didn't do anything for my powers of observation because it takes nearly three full seconds of confusion before I realise the reason for this behaviour. It is not, as one might at first think, caused by the fact that the man who once stole his fiancee just kissed his baby sister. It's caused by the fact that there are other people in the Gardens.

"By the wall," he tells me in 'Service Sign'. One of the international sign languages would probably have been more useful, but the British Secret Service wanted their own. I suppose it stops random deaf people from being able to understand us. Which is a very serious cause of concern, of course.

"River," I sign back. He tips his head slightly, drops a gun into my pocket then signals me to split left while he heads right. I don't argue, but I feel a tug of irritation. Right is more dangerous. Patronising sod. I hold out a spread hand to give a time signal and start to move. As I do so I clap, quickly, three times. It's just possible LeBeau knows the sound signal for West.

oooOoOoOoOOOoOoOoOooo

"There's more than one," hissed Meg spotting a figure darting right as she heard a clap signal moving left.

Justin theatrically raises his hands to his face at this further proof of Meg's incompetence. When he has their attention he signals: "Heading West," in careful, accurate, S-Sign. He's feeling ever so slightly smug that he had memorised the sound-signals too. Charlotte nods agreement and looks at the read-out on her wrist-mounted monitor.

"Signal's not moving," she signs. "Orders are we get the signal carrier first."

They move together, careful and silent. Or at least as silent as three inexperienced operatives can.


End file.
